BLACKWELL FAMILY ALICE STONE BLACKWELL Miscellany Spanish-American Poems Articles by Alice Stone BlackwellFew persons in the U. S. have any idea how much really beautiful poetry has been produced in the republics to the south of us. Even to those familiar with European literature, the literature of the southern part of our own hemisphere was then as unknown as the dark side of the moon. PROLOGO DE TRADUCTORA Las Republicas latin-americanas poseen una vasta e interesante literatura poetica, digna de ser mejor conocida en Estados Unidos. Este libro se ofrece como una contribuciona tal fin. Contiene la presente obra 213 poemas por 87 diferentes autores que representen 18 paises. Muchase de estas traducciones han aparecido en varia publicaciones en el curso de los ultimos 18 anos. La mayoria de estas tra estos poemas no habian sido vertidos al ingles. La coleccion no puede ser llamada en ningun sentido completa. Muchos admirables poetas no figuran aqui. Con todo, aparece representada la obra de aquellos que los propios hispano-americanos consideran como sus mas gra grandes poetas: Ruben Dario, de Nicaragua; Jose Santos Chocano, del Peru; Amado Nervo, de Mejico, y Gabriela Mistral, de Chile, junto con muchos otros autores bien concocidos. Las gentes latino-ameicanas tienen a la poesia en alta estima. A la muerte de Amado en Montevideo, Argentina y Uruguay enviaron un crucero cada una para escoltar sus restes restos hasta su patria, Mejico, y Cuba envio otro a su encuentro para acompanarle a Veracruz. Cuando Ruben Dario visito las republicas de hispano-America, su jira tuvo las proporciones de una visita regia. Otro tanto c ocurrio con la de Gabriela Mistrl. He oido que en Colombia, cuando un autor favorito ha terminado un nuevo poema, todo el mundo se presenta a eschucharlo, y el entusiasmo no es menor que el que se produce en nuestras grandes partidas de pelota. Un amigo de la traductora, un comerciante de Estados Unidos, que vivio anos en Mejico, dice que en tiempos en que ocurrian acontecimientos de alcance nacional tales como los que harian a los periodicos norte-americanos consagrarles las primeras paginas, los diarios de la Ciudad de Mejico los relegaban a sitios secundarios para reservar la primera pagina a dar cuenta de la visita de algun poeta de Espana o de la America del Sur Anade que en un tiroteo durante la ultima revolucion, los soldados de la pertida derrotada salieron a la desbandada, y uno de los fugitivosse subio a un arbol. Los perseguidores le rodearon y le apuntaron sus fusiles; pero el les grito: ".No me maten. Yo soy poeta." Al punto las armas se bajaron, y el poeta fue dejado en liberdad. Si queremos entender a nuestros vecinos del Sur, debieramos conocer algo de su poesia. Tengo la esperanza de que esta obra contribuya a ese buen entendimiento, y sirva a la causa del respeto mutuo y buena voluntad entre pueblos. En la preparacion de estas traducciones he contado co la ayuda de la Senorita Juana Palacios, de Mejico; Professor James Geddes y Dr. Samuel /. M. Waxman, ambos de la Universidad de Boston; Professor J. Moreno Lacalle del Middlebury College, Vermont; Professor Elijah Clarence Hills, de la Universidad de California; Miss Angel Palomo, del Wellesley College (ahora Mrs. J.E. Campbell)N; Dr. Isaac Goldberg, Senora Bertha G. Romero, Ernesto Montenegro, de El Mercurio; W.W. Davies , de la La Nacion; Mrs. Francesca Quinones Carroll, de Mejico; Dr. Alicia Moreau y Justo, de Buenos Aires; Senora Laura Meneses de Albizu Campos, de Chile, y otros amigos. La poesia hispanoamericana es cual un gran jardin lleno de flores de todas clases y de variado color. Cualquiera que entre a el puede formar un ramillete a su propio gusto. Los poemas que aqui aparecen son de aquellos que han gustado o han sido de interes para la traductora. Esta versiones inglesas han sido hechas en momentos arrebatados a una vida harto laboriosa. Sus imperfecciones son muchas, a no dudarleo. Pero no existe otra coleccion considerable de poems hispano-americanos en que sea posible leer el original en coneccion co [?] traduccion. El gran [?]e El grande y creciente numero de nuestrs compatriota que han estudiado castellano estaran asi en situacion de apreciar cuanto mas bellas son los poemas en su original espanol de lo que aparecen en la version en lengus inglesa. Alice Stone Blackwell 3 Monadnock Street, Boston, Massachusetts. January 17, 1928.PROLOGO [DEL TRADUCTOR (E] DE LA TRADUCTORA (?) LAS Repúblicas latino-americanas poseen una vasta e interesante literatura poética, digna de ser mejor conecida en Estados Unidos. Este libro se Oferece como una contribucion a tal fin. Contiene la presente obra 2/3 poemas por 87diferentes autores que representan 18 paíse. la mayoría de estos poemas no habían sido hasta hoy vertidos al inglès. Mu- chas de estas traducciones han aparecido en varias publicaciones en el curso de los ultimos diecisiete años. La coleccion no puede ser llamada en ningun sentido completa. Muchos admirables poetas no figuran aquí. Con todo, aparece representada la obra de aquellos que los propics hispano-americanos consideran como sus más grandes poetas: Rubén Darío, de Nicaragua; José Santos Chocano, del Perú; Amada Nervo, de Méjico, y Gabirela Mistral, de Chile, junto con muchos otros autories bien conocidos. Las gentes latino-americanas tienen a la poesía en alta estima. Un amigo de la traductora, un comerciantes de Estados Unidos que vivió años en Méjico, dice que en tiempos que ocurrían acontecimientos de alcana nacional tales como los que harían a los periódicos norte-americanos consagrarles las primeras páginas, los diarios de la Ciudad de Méjico los relegaban a sitios secundarios para reserver la primera página a dar cuenta de la visita de algun poeta de España o de la América del Sur. Añade que en un tiroteo durante la última revolucion, los soldados de la partida derrotada salieron a la desbandada, y uno de los fugitivos se subió a un árbol. Los perseguidores le rodearon y le apuntaron sus fusiles; pero él les gritó: "¡No me maten! Yo soy un poeta!" Al punto las armas se bajaron, y el poeta fué dejado en libertad.280 BROADWAY, NEW YORK CITYPHOLOGO DE TRADOCTORA Las Republicas latino-americanas poseen una vasta e interesante literatura poetica, digna de ser mejor conocida en Estados Unidos. Este libre se ofrece como una contribución a tal fin. Contiene la presente obra 213 poemas por 87 diferentes autores que representen 18 países. Muchas de estas traducciones han aparecido en varia publicaciones en el curso de los últimos 18 anos. La mayoría de estas era estos poemas no habían sido vertidos al ingles. La colección no puede ser llamada en ningún sentido completa. Muchos admirables poetas no figuran aquí. Con todo, aparece representada la obra de aquellos que los propios hispano-americanos consideran como sus mas gra grandes poetas: Ruben Dario, de Nicaragua; Jose Santos Chocano, del Peru; Amado Nervo, de Mejico, y Gabriela Mistral, de Chile, junto con muchos otros autores bien cocidos. Las gentes latino-americanas tienen a la poesía en alta estima. A la muerte de Amado en Montevideo, Argentina y Uruguay enviaron un crucero cada una para escoltar sus restes restos hasta so patria, Mejico, y Cuba envió otro a su encuentro para acompañarle a Veracruz. Cuando Ruben Dario visito las republicas de hispano-America, au jira tuvo las proporciones de una visita regia. Otro tanto a ocurrio con la de Gabriela Mistral. He oido que en Colombia, cuando un autor favorito ha terminado un nuevo poema, todo el mundo se presenta a escucharlo, y el entusiasmo no es menor que el que ne produce en nuestras grandes partidas de pelota. Un amigo de la traductora, un comerciante de Estados Unidos, que vivió anos en Mejico, dice que en tiempos en que ocurrían acontecimientos de alcance nacional tales como los que harían a los periódicos norteamericanos los relegaban a sitios secundarios para reservar la primera pagina a dar cuenta de la visita de algún poeta de Espana o de la America del Sur Anade que en un tiroteo durante la ultima revolución, los solados de la partida derrotada salieron a la desbandada, y uno de los fugitivos se subió a un árbol. Los perseguidores le rodearon y le apuntaron sus fusiles; pero el les grito: "No me maten. Yo soy poeta." Al punto las armas se bajaron, y el poeta fue dejado en libertad. Si queremos entender a nuestros vecinos del Sur, debiéramos conocer algo de su poesía. Tengo la esperanza de que esta obra contribuya a ese buen entendimiento, y sirva a la causa del respeto mutuo y buena voluntad entre pueblos. En la preparacion de estas traducciones he contado co la ayuda de la Señorita Juana Palacios, de Mejico; Professor James Geddes y Dr. Samuel /. M. Waxman, ambos de la Universidad de Boston; Professor J. Moreno Lacalle del Middlebury College, Vermont; Professor Elijah Clarence Hills, de la Universidad de California; Miss Angel Palomo, del Wellesley College (ahora Mrs. J.E. Campbell); Dr. Isaac Goldberg, Señora Bertha G. Romero, Ernesto Montenegro, de El Mercurio; W.W. Davies, de la La Nacion; Mrs. Francesca Quinones Carroll, de Mejico; Dr. Alicia Moreau y Junto, de Buenos Aires; Senora Laura Meneses de Albizu Campos, de Chile, y otros amigos. La poesia hispanoamericana es cual un gran jardín lleno de flores de todas clases y de variado color. Cualquiera que entre a el pues formar un ramillete a su proprio gusto. Los poemas que aquí aparecen son de aquellos que han gustado o han sido de interés para la traductora. Estas versiones inglesas han sido hechas en momentos arrebatados a una vido harto laboriosa. Sus imperfecciones son muchas, a no dudarlo. Pero no existe otra colección considerable de poemas hispano-americanos en que sea posible leer el original en colección co traducción. El grande El grande y creciente numero de nuestra compatriota que han estudiado castellano esteran así en situación de apreciar cuanto mas belles son los poemas en su original español de lo que aparecen en la version en lengua inglesa. Alice Stone Blackwell 3 Monadnock Street, Boston, Massachusetts. January 17, 1928.3 FORWARD BY THE TRANSLATOR The Spanish American Republics have a large and interesting poetic literature, which deserves to be better known in the United States. This book aims to be a help towards that end. It contains 213 poems, by 87 authors, representing 18 countries. Many of the translations have appeared in various periodicals, in the course of the past 18 years. Most of these poems had never before been put into English. The collection is in no sense complete. There are may admirable poets not represented here. But examples are given of the work of those whom the Spanish Americans themselves regard as their greatest poets_ Ruben Dario of Nicaragua, Jose Santos Chocano of Peru, Amado Nervo of Mexico and Gabriela Mistral of Chile_ with many other popular writers. Among the Latin Americans, poetry is held in high esteem. A friend of the translator, a business man from the United States, lived for years in Mexico. He says that when great national events were occurring, such as with us would be spread upon the front pages of all the newspapers, the papers of Mexico City relegated them to an inconspicuous place, and gave the first page to a visit from some poet of Spain or South America. He adds that, in a skirmish during the civil war, a few years ago, the soldiers of the defeated party broke and fled, and one of the fugitives climbed a tree. The pursuers came up and levelled their guns at him; but he called out, "Do not shoot me! I am a poet!" immediately the guns were lowered and he was allowed to go. In Colombia, it is said, when a favorite author has written a new poem the whole community turns out to hear it read, and the enthusiasm is like that attending one of our big ball games. When Ruben Dario travelled though the Spanish American countries, his journey was like a royal progress. So was Gabriela Mistral's. When Amado Nervo died in Montevideo, Argentina and Uruguay each sent a battle-ship to convoy his body home to Mexico, and Cuba sent out a cruiser to join the escort into Vera Cruz. 4 If we want to understand our neighbors to the South of us, we ought to know something about their poetry. It is hope that this book may contribute towards such an understanding, and be an aid to mutual respect and good-will. Help in preparing these translations has given by Senorita Juana Palacios of Mexico City, Professor James Geddes and Dr. Samuel M. Waxman, both of Boston University, Professor J. Moreno Lacalle of Middlebury College, Vermont, Professor Elijah Clarence Hills of the University of California, Miss Angela Palomo of Wellesley College (now Mrs. J. E. Campbell), Dr. Isaac Goldberg, Madame Bertha G. Romero, Ernesto Montenegro of "El Mercurio," W.W. Davies of "La Nacion," Mrs. Francesca Juinones Carroll, Dr. Alicia Moreauy Justo of Buenos Aires, Senora Laura Meneses de Albizu Campos of Chile, and other friends. These English versions have been made for recreation in the few spare moments of a very busy life. They are no doubt full of imperfections. But there is no other considerable collection of Spanish American poems where the originals can be read in connection with the translations. The large and growing number of our people who have studied Spanish will thus be able to see how much more beautiful the poems are in the original Spanish than they are in the English version. Spanish American poetry is like a large garden, full of flowers of every kind and color. Anyone who goes into it can gather a bouquet according to his own taste. The poems given here are some of those which have pleased or interested the translator. Alice Stone Blackwell 3 Monadnock Street, Boston, Mass6 He oído que en Colombia, cuando un autor favorito ha terminado un nuevo poema, todo el mundo se presenta [?] a escuclarlo, y el entusiasmo no es menor que el que se produce en nuestras grandes partidas de pelota. Cuando Rubén Daríc visitó las repúblicas de hispano-América, su jira tuvo las proporciones de una visita [?] regia. Otro tanto ocurrió con la de Gabriela Mistral. A la muerto de Amado Nervo en Montevideo, Argentina y Uruguay enviaron un crucero cada una para escoltar sus restos hasta su patria, Méjico, y xx Cuba envió otro a su encuentro para accompañarle a Veracrus. Si queremos entender a nuestros vecinos del Bur, debiéramce conocer, also de su poesía. Tengo la esperanza de que esta obra contribuya a ese buen entendimients, y sirva a la causa del respeto mutuo a + buena voluntad entre pueblos. Si queremos entender a nuestros vecinos del Bur, debiéramce [?] algo de su poesía. Tengo de que esta obra contribuya a ese buen entendimiente y sirva a la causa del respeto mutuo y buena voluntad entros pueblos. En la preparation de estas etraducciones he contado con la ayuda de la Señorita Juana Palacios, de Méjico; " Professo James Geddes y Dr. Samuel M. Waxman ambos de la Universidad de Ecston; Professor J. Moreno Lascalle, del Middlebury College, Vermont; {rofesor Elijah Clarence Hills, de la Universidad de California; Miss Angela Palomo, xxxxxxxxxx del Wellesley College ( ahors Mrs. J. E. Campbell); Dr. Isaac Goldberg, Señora [?] Bertha G. Romero Ernesto Montenegeo, de El Mercurcio; La poesia hispanoamericana es cual un gran jardín lleno de flores de todos classes y de variado cool Cualquiera que entre a él puede formar un ramillete a su propio gusto. Los Poemas que aquí aparecen son aquellos que han gustado o han sido de interés para la traductora. Estas versiones ingleaas han sido hechas en xxxxxx momentos arrebatados a una vida harto laboriosa. Sue imperfeccionesson muchas, no dudarlo. Pero it must existe otra coleccion considerable de poemas hispano-americanos en que sea posible [] leer el original en occasion con la traduccion. El grande y creciente número de nuestros compatriotas que han estudiado castellino ostarestarán xxxxx así en situacion de apreciar cuánto más bellos son los poemas en su original español de lo que aparecen en la version en lengua inglesa. [ALICE STONE BLACKWELL]SDA, who has just died at the age of 75, was looked upon by the [Ms?] as their poet laureate. [The] his [grief over his death was touching] death called out a wonderful demonstration of love + grief Flags were at half mast throughout Mexico City; government offices and business houses alike were closed, + [and] Among the thousands [who bore] carrying flowers in the funeral procession were hundreds of poor Indians, who could not read, but who knew his [verses] poems by heart. [salvad?] [?] poetry is largely spirited + martial, but it can also be sweet, as in the verses "AP", which may be thus rendered into Ey: He wrote fiery love poetry, as in "TS". Often his verses show a tinge of bitterness, as in "[?]": But his songs of liberty are the most characteristic part of his verse. A sample is The clause, Some of his most vigorous poems [are] were directed against the US; + it must be confessed that, the policy of the US deserved it, at the time when they were written, He was buried in a part of the cemetery known as the G of I.M., which is reserved for real heroes. Juan B. Delgado Arcade, Poeta, Academico, Diplomatico Naci´ø en Querétaro el 28 de agosto de [río] 1868. Hizo sus estudios en el Seminario de aquel Estado y en la Preparatoria de México. Ha ocupado los siguientes puestos: Secretario del Vicepresidente de la Republica; Diputado al Congress de la Unión; Secretario de Legación en Roma; Secretario de Embajada en España; Enviado Extraordinario y Ministro Plenipotenciario en Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua y Colombia. Es en la actualidad Correspondiente de la Real Española de la Lengua; Arcade de Roma con el nombre pastoral de Alicandro Epirotieo y socio de varios corporaciones literarias. Ha publicado2 los siguientes libros: "Paris y Otras Poemas," "El País de Rubén Darío," y "Bajo el haya de Titiro". En prosa ha dado a luz: "Letras Diplomaticas," "Nuevas Orientaciones de l Poesía Feminina" y "Cuentas y Prosas Dispersas." Proximamente publicana sus poemas de tribuna.SPANISH-AMERICAN POETS By Alice Stone Blackwell The Latin Americans are great lovers of poetry. A business man from the United States who spent many years in Mexico says that when great public events were taking place there, such as with us would be spread on the front pages of all the newspapers, they were relegated to an inconspicuous position, while the place of honor was given to the visit of some poet from Spain or South America. He adds that in a skirmish during the last revolution, the defeated party broke and fled, and one of the fugitives climbed a tree. The pursuers came up and levelled their guns at him, but he called out, "Do not shoot me! I am a poet!" Immediately the guns were lowered and he was allowed to go. In Colombia, when a popular poet has written a new poem, the whole community turns out to hear it read, and the enthusiasm is like that of North Americans at a ball game. When Ruben Dario of Nicaragua died, he was given a funeral as magnificent as that of an emperor, and the mourning throughout Spanish America was universal. Gabriela Mistral of Chile, from an obscure country school teacher, has become famous through all the Spanish-speaking countries by her poems. She was lately invited to give a course of lectures on education and South American literature at the University of Mexico, and her journey from Chile to Mexico was like a royal progress. When Amado Nervo died in Montevideo, the governments of Argentina and Uruguay each sent a warship, as an escort of honor to convoy his body home to Mexico, and Cuba sent a cruiser to join the cortege into Vera Cruz. Anyone who wants to understand our Latin American neighbors ought to know something of their poetry; and they have many poets who deserve to be better known in North America than they are. In the following series of articles, it is proposed to give brief Spanish American poets - page 2. (Alice Stone Blackwell) biographical sketches of the leading Spanish American poets, with some translations from their work. Ruben Dario Ruben Dario of Nicaragua (born 1867; died 1916) is considered by the Spanish Americans their greatest poet, because of the extraordinarily musical quality of his verse. This is necessarily lost in translation. Dario was a child prodigy; could read at three years old; and while still in his early teens was already known throughout Central America as the boy poet. At fourteen he was already a journalist. He did newspaper work in many countries; was Nicaragua's delegate to the Columbus centenary in Spain, consul from Colombia to Buenos Aires, consul from Nicaragua to Paris, delegate to the Pan-American Congress at Rio Janeiro in 1906 and Envoy Extraordinary to Mexico on the centenary of Mexican independence. He did not carry out this last mission, however, lest complications might arise from a poem he had once written to Roosevelt. He travelled extensively as correspondent for La Nacion of Buenos Aires, and on his visit to New York, shortly before his death, was presented by the Hispanic Society of America with its medal of honor. The White Page It was the hour of dreams; in front of me A snow-white page outspread I seemed to see. And a procession came of dreams and shades; Women like statues passed before my sight, Women with faces as of marble pale, So sad, so sweet, so gentle and so white. And visions of strange poems glided by - Strange poems made of kisses and of tears, And stories that in cruel instants leave Men's hair as white as with the flight of years. What casques of snow Fate places on our heads, And what precocious wrinkles on the face! How the slow camels of the caravan She strives to goad into a quicker pace! Spanish American Poets - page 3. (Alice Stone Blackwell) The slow-paced camels - like the figures dark In some strange panorama, see them glide Across the white page spread before my sight As if it were a snowy desert wide! One bears a load of ancient griefs and woes, Griefs of the nations, woes of races dumb - The griefs and sorrows that the Christs endure Who to this world of tragic victims come. One bears the chest the Queen of Sheba brings, A coffer full of dreams and pearls and gold; And one a casket where Hope's corps is laid Like a dead lily, mournful now and cold. And on a dromedary journeys past, Clad in dark robes moved by no breeze's breath, The Queen invincible, the pallid Queen, The beauty all inviolate, pale Death. And man, - who is assailed by visions grim, And 'mid the constellations overhead Sees marvels that perturb his wondering soul And signs that fill his trembling heart with dread - Looks on the dromedary where it comes - A vision passing o'er a phantom stage - As on the messenger that brings the light In the vague desert of the snow-white page. Stories of the Cid (Rodrigo de Bivar was the great champion of Spain against the Moors. Babieca was his horse, Tizona his sword, and Ximena his lady-love.) Barbey narrate, in verse well worth his prose, A story of the Cid, fresh as a rose, Pure as a pearl. In it we do not hear Spain's trumpets on the wind ring loud and clear, Nor do the Moors flee, when day's beams reveal, Bright in the sun, Tizona's soul of steel. Resting awhile from war's wild hurricane, Calm browses Babieca on the plain, While the brave knight goes forth to breathe the air, And to enjoy the time of blossoms fair. Spring smiles; with life's swift course that onward streams, In the world's garden lilies bloom, and dreams. Rodrigo, musing, wanders through the land, Till in his path, in Spring's clear sunshine bland, A leper stops him, holding out his hand. There face to face the prince of victory, Youthful, and beauteous like St. James to see, Stands with the living horror, all unsound, Live carrion, spreading poison stench around. And the ill-omened beggar, craving alms, Outstretches to Rodrigo suppliant palms. Spanish American Poets - page 4. (Alice Stone Blackwell) Rodrigo seeks his purse; it is not there. "O Cid, an alms!" the lost soul makes his prayer. "The bare alms of my hand I offer thee, Brother!" He doffs his gauntlet hastily, And to the wretch holds out his bare right hand. The beggar weeps; his heart can understand! * * * * * * The Constable this deed like precious wine Pours out, within his cup of France to shine. I add a sip of liquor brewed in Spain: The Cid, when he had donned his glove again, Followed the vernal pathway fair to see. A bird flung notes of crystal from a tree; A perfume as of grace the deep sky shed, In the day's glory, o'er the landscape spread. The chapels' bells poured out o'er wood and wold Their sweet melodious rain of sounds of gold; The soul of flowers went forth along the ways To blend with pilgrims' voices, chanting praise. Content, the great Rodrigo de Bivar Went as if in his breast he bore a star. Then from the fragrant field sprang up a maid, And came to him, in innocence arrayed. She might have been a woman, sweet and white, With frank, angelic eyes that shone with light; She might have been a fay, a magic thing, An incarnation of the heavenly Spring. "O soul of love and fire! I bring to thee, In Gods and Ximena's name", said she, "This budding rose and this fresh laurel spray!" The leaves of laurel waved his helmet o'er, In his steel glove a budding rose he bore, And honey-sweetness in his soul that day.Spanish American Poets - page 5 THE PRINCESS AND THE STAR. To Margarita Debayle Margarita, the sea lies fair, And from the bowers The wind brings a subtle scent Of orange flowers. In my soul a lark is singing - Your voice, my dear! I am going to tell you a story; Sit down and hear. There once was a mighty monarch, With a palace of diamonds bright, And elephants in a stately troop, And a tent that was made of light; And a tower of malachite costly, And a mantle of gorgeous hue, And a sweet little, dear little princess, As pretty, my darling, as you. One evening the princess, gazing, Saw a star in the heavens afar. She was mischievous, surely, the princess - She wanted to gather that star. To adorn for her bosom a breastpin She wished it, the dear little girl, Along with the verse of a poet, a feather, a flower and a pearl. It seems dainty princesses, darlin, Are much as you are today, For lilies they pick, and roses, And stars. They are made that way! So she went, the lovely princess, O'er the sea and under the sky, To cut the white star that she longed for From the vault of the heavens on high. She went up by the moon, and farther, On that beautiful summer eve; But the bad thing was that she went away Without asking her father's leave. And when she came back from the Lord's fair park In the heaven's azure height, She was seen all wrapped in a glory soft, In a splendor sweet and bright. The king said, "What were you doing? I have looked for you everywhere. And what is that on you bosom That shines with a light so fair?" Spanish American Poets - page 6. The princess told no falsehood; She made him an answer true. "I went to gather my star," she said, "From the heavens vast and blue." The king cried, "Oh, what madness! What a fancy strange and wild! I told you no one must touch the sky. The Lord will be angry, child!" "I meant no harm", she answered; "I went, I don't know why, Across the waves, in the blowing wind, And I cut the star from the sky." Said her father, "You must be punished. Go back to the sky once more, For what you stole from the shining heights To its place you must restore." The princess grew sad and mournful For her beauteous flower of light; But then kind Jesus appeared to them His smile it was sweet and bright. "In my country's fields up yonder I gave her that rose," said he. "My flowers belong to the little girls Who think and who dream of me." The king donned glittering garments, And there by the shore he made Four hundred elephants grave and tall March past in a grand parade. And the princess is fair to look on, With her breastpin, the happy girl; For it shines with the star, with a poet's verse, With a feather, a flower and a pearl! Margarita, the sea lies fair; The breezed clear Waft orange-blossoms' fragrance - Your breath, my dear! Now soon you will be far distant, But keep, little girl, I pray A kindly thought for the friend who tried To tell you a tale one day! Spanish American Poets - page 7 To Cervantes Though heavy hours I pass and mournful days In solitude, Cervantes is to me A faithful friend. He lightens gloom with glee; A restful hand upon my head he lays, Life in the hues of nature he portrays; A golden helmet, jewelled brilliantly, He gives my dreams, that wander far and free. It is for me he sighs, he laughs, he prays. The Christian and the lover and the knight Speaks like a streamlet clear and crystalline. I love and marvel at his spirit bright, Beholding how, by mystic Fate's design, The whole world now drinks mirth and rich delight From deathless sadness of a life divine! (From Alice Stone Blackwell, Chilmark, Martha's Vineyard, Mass. If not wanted, please return. Stamps enclosed.)4/ Marizoñi, who wrote "I Promessi Sposi", "The Betrothed Lovers," the greatest of Italian novels + one of the greatest of all the freedom novels, wrote the following poem. March 1821. (you see the very titles of these poems would require explanation) -------- Dear Italy, wherever the sad cry of thy long servitude has gone forth; wherever hope has not yet deserted human kind; wherever liberty has already bloomed; wherever it ripens in secret; wherever it weeps disaster - there is no heart that does not beat for thee. (2) How many times has thou marched for the standard of a friend upon the alps! How many times turned thy gaze upon the desert of the double sea! (Adriatic + Mediterranean) Behold at last, sent forth from thine own bosom, gathered about thy holy banner, strung, armed with their griefs. Thy sons are gone forth to battle.(3) today, O strong ones, the fury of thy secret thoughts flaming upon thy faces, for Italy you fight. Conquer! Her fate rests upon your swords. We shall see her either risen through you, seated at the table of the nations, or else more enslaved, more vile, more scorned under the hideous rod she will remain. It was fifty years more before Italy took her place at the table of the nations. There is another class of poems by Guisti, which never mention names or dates or revolution, but which referred to things which everyone understood at the time. Giusti has become a standard, like Longfellow with us. His poems are read as much today as then, and I think they belong to all times and countries. This one, The Slave, I think hits us particularly now that we hear so much talk of "too many notes already," and "the suffrage ought to be limited instead of extended." The Slave. A Fragment. By Giuseppe Giusti 5) Behold the poor slave Who returns to his chains, Beat him, to punish him For having played the man. With the right of the stranger, Beat him to death. (2) Then, standing on him, grind his bones, Break his back, To see if he has the power To remake himself from the sticks, That which he has not been able to do When robust and well fed. (Because the slave has not made good use of freedom, send him back into slavery again to learn how.) (3) If delicate food arouses his wrath, send him back to the bread made of acorns, In his old sty, And there locked up and chained, He lies and groans, and is silent. (4) The silence, the misery, The life, dark and sad, Will give him the wit To search in his mindthat for which he never searched in a joyous life - Liberty of speech. (5) His head swims, as with a sunstroke, In the dark he was reared. The sun has frozen him, Return him to the darkness. *** If no one is taught To endure the light I think that from this idea, that the unenfranchised cannot at once make good use of liberty, and must have time to learn how to use it, a noble poem in English could be written. But, I confess I don't see how you are going to translate it. Their way of getting at a thing is as different from ours. I think "The Snail" is delicious. It expresses so exactly the ideals of certain men regarding women. The Snail By Giuseppe Giusti Long live the snail! Long live a creature Which unites merit To modesty.A Spanish-American Poet. (From The Indianapolis News.) The names of few Spanish-American writers are known to the English-speaking American, although South Americans generally are said to be familiar with English and American literature. How many Americans have read of Ruben Dario, the poet, said by "The Poetry Review" to be the most prominent figure in Spanish-American letters of to-day? He was born in Segovia, Nicaragua, January 18, 1854, and was educated in Leon, the Nicaraguan capital. Early in his life he developed a taste for the writings of Victor Hugo, and translations of some of Hugo's stories were his earliest literary efforts. From Leon he went to San Salvador, where he joined the staff of a music journal. While there the government commissioned him to write the ode for the Bolivar centennial. He next went to Santiago and his fourth book, "Azul," a collection of tales in prose and verse, published there, attracted general attention, and was the subject of much praise by Spanish critics. He afterward removed to Madrid, and for several years exercised a great influence on the younger poets of Spain. Dario's poetry is said by critics to combine French excellence of technique with Spanish feeling and beauty. The Nicaraguan poet is one of a number of Latin-American writers whom the North American might read for pleasure and mental stimulation. Spanish American Poets - page 2. (Alice Stone Blackwell) biographical sketches of the leading Spanish American poets, with some translations from their work. Ruben Dario Ruben Dario of Nicaragua (born 1867; died 1916) is considered by the Spanish Americans their greatest poet, because of the extraordinarily musical quality of his verse. This is necessarily lost in translation. Dario was a child prodigy; could read at three years old; and while still in his early teens was already know throughout Central America as the boy poet. At fourteen he was already a journalist. He did newspaper work in many countries; was Nicaragua's delegate to the Columbus centenary in Spain, consul from Colombia to Buenos Aires, consul from Nicaragua to Paris, delegate to the Pan-American Congress at Rio Janeiro in 1906 and Envoy Extraordinary to Mexico on the centenary of Mexican independence. He did not carry out this last mission, however, lest complications might arise from a poem he had once written to Roosevelt. He travelled extensively as correspondent for La Nacion of Buenos Aires, and on his visit to New York, shortly before his death, was presented by the Hispanic Society of America with its medal of honor. James Bryce, in his book on South America, awards the palm for poetry to Colombia. Some of that country's poets can pack much meat in little space, as in these lines by Julio Florez: They say that once a proud and sinful king, Alone with his own conscience on the shore, Beside the billowy ocean fell asleep; And, rising up in wrath, the mighty deep Engulfed the wretch, with fierce and thunderous roar. Ah, ye do well, ye despots of the world, Never to close your eyes repose to take! The people are a sea, a deep, strong sea, Which thinks, and punishes, and wrathfully May rise and swallow you. Keep wide awake! "In Pursuit of the Dream," by the Colombian poet Diego Uribe, might almost have been written for this year of war and sorrow: We are wooed by the rainbow light of eve Through infinite space to float On the topaz sea of the western sky, With a cloud for our rosy boat. Let us leap on board of it swiftly, That flying foam-flake frail! The breeze will lend us its viewless oar, And our wish its moving sail. We shall look on the tomb of the Day that is dead, From a sea without rock or wave, And gaze on the rose-hued landscape fair Of the distance vague and grave. We shall reach at length Truth's dwelling, In the depths profound and far, Where unheard are the world's vain echoes, And Earth is a far-off star.SPANISH-AMERICAN POETS By Alice Stone Blackwell The Latin Americans are great lovers of poetry. A business man from the United States who spent many years in Mexico says that when great public events were taking place there, such as with us would be spread on the front page of all the newspapers, they were relegated to an inconspicuous position, while the place of honor was given to the visit of some poet from Spain or South America. He adds that in a skirmish during the last revolution, the defeated party broke and fled, and one of the fugitives climbed a tree. The pursuers came up and levelled their guns at him, but he called out, "Do not shoot me! I am a poet!" Immediately the guns were lowered and he was allowed to go. In Columbia, when a popular poet has written a new poem, the whole community turns out to hear it read, and the enthusiasm is like that of North Americans at a ball game. When Ruben Dario of Nicaragua died, he was given a funeral as magnificent as that of an emperor, and the mourning throughout Spanish America was universal. Gabriela Mistral of Chile, from an obscure country school teacher, has become famous through all the Spanish-speaking countries by her poems. She was lately invited to give a course of lectures on education and South American literature at the University of Mexico, and her journey from Chile to Mexico was like a royal progress. When Amado Nervo died in Montevideo, the governments of Argentina and Uruguay each sent a warship, as an escort of honor to convey his body home to Mexico, and Cuba sent a cruiser to join the cortege into Vera Cruz. Anyone who wants to understand our Latin American neighbors ought to know something of their poetry; and they have many poets who deserve to be better known in North America than they are. In the following series of articles, it is proposed to give brief [*Dear Adna: Two copies of this will be enough. Affectionately, A.S.B.*] Spanish-American Poets By Alice Stone Blackwell The Latin Americans are great lovers of poetry. [An] A business man from the United States who spent many years in Mexico says that when great public events were [occurring] [taking place] taking place there, such as with us would be spread on the [first] front pages of all the newspapers, they were relegated to an inconspicuous position, [and] while the place of honor was given to the visit of some poet from Spain or South America. He adds that in a skirmish during the last revolution, the defeated party broke and fled, and one of [them] the fugitives climbed a tree. The pursuers came up and levelled their guns at him, but he2 called out, "Do not shoot me! I am a poet!" Immediately the guns were lowered and he was allowed to go. In Columbia, when a popular poet has written a new poem, the whole community turns out to hear it read, and the enthusiasm is like that of North Americans at a ball game. When Ruben Dario of Nicaragua died, he was given a funeral [like] as magnificent as that of an emperor, and the mourning throughout Spanish America was universal. Gabriela Mistrel of Chile, from an obscure country school [mistres] teacher, has become famous through all the Spanish-speaking countries by her poems. She was lately invited [by the University of Mexico] to to give a course of lectures on education and South American literature at the University of Mexico, and her journey from Chile to Mexico was like a royal progress. When Amado Nervo died in Montevideo, the governments of 3 Argentina and Uruguay each sent a [battle] warship as an escort of honor to convey his body [back] home to Mexico, and Cuba sent a cruiser to join the cortege into Vera Cruz. Anyone who [wishes] wants to understand our Latin American neighbors ought to know something of their poetry; and they have many poets who deserve to be better known in North American than they are. In the following series of articles, it is proposed to give brief biographical sketches of the leading Spanish American poets; with some translations [of some] from their work. (subhead) [Amado Nervo] Ruben Dario Ruben Dario of Nicaragua (born 1867; died 1916) is considered by the Spanish Americans their greatest poet, because of the extraordinarily musical quality of his verse. This is necessarily lost in translation. Dario was a child prodigy; could read at three years old; and while still in his early [Teens] teens was already known throughout Central America as the boy poet. At fourteen he was already a journalist. He did newspaper work in [Chile, Argentina] many countries; was Nicaragua's delegate to4 the Columbus centenary in Spain, consul from Colombia to Buenos Aires, consul from Nicaragua to Paris, delegate to the Pan American Congress at Rio Janeiro in 1906 and [Envo] Envoy Extraordinary to Mexico on the centenary of Mexican independence. [He tre but] He did not carry out this last mission, [for fear] however, lest complications might arise from a poem he had once written to Roosevelt. He travelled extensively as correspondent for La Nacion of [Bunes] Buenos Aires, [was a warm advocate of peace] and on his visit to New York, shortly before his death, was presented by the Hispanic Society of America with its medal of honor. (subhead) The White Page It was the hour of dreams; in front of me A snow-white page outspread I seemed to see, And a procession came of dreams and shades; Women like statues passed before my sight, Women with faces as of marble pale, So sad, so sweet, so gentle and so white. And visions of strange poems glided by- Strange poems made of kisses and of tears, And stories that in cruel instants leave Men's hair as white as with the flight of years. What casques of snow Fate places on our heads, And what precious wrinkles on the face! How the slow camels of the caravan She strives to goad into a quicker pace! The slow-paced camels - like the figures dark 5 In some strange panorama, see them glide Across the white page spread before my sight As if it were a snowy desert wide! One bears a load of ancient griefs and woes, Griefs of the nations, woes of races dumb- The griefs and sorrows that the Christs endure Who to this world of tragic victims come. One bears the chest the Queen of Sheba brings, A coffer full of dreams and pearls and gold; And one a casket where Hope's corpse is laid Like a dead lily, mournful now and cold. And on a dromedary journeys past, Clad in dark robes moved by no breeze's breath, The Queen invincible, the pallid Queen, The beauty all [un] inviolate Death. And man, who is assailed by visions grim, And 'mid the constellations overhead Sees marvels that perturb his wondering soul And signs that fill his trembling heart with dread- Looks on the dromedary where it comes- A vision passing o'er a phantom stage- As on the messenger that brings the light In the vague desert of the snow-white page.6 subhead Stories of the Cid [Rodrigo de Bivar was the great champion of Spain against the Moors. Babieca was his horse, Tizona his sword, and Ximena his lady-love.] Barbey narrates, in verse well worth his prose, A story of the Cid, fresh as a rose, Pure as a pearl. In it we do not hear Spain's trumpets on the wind ring loud and clear, Nor do the Moors flee, when day's beams reveal, Bright in the sun, Tizona's soul of steel. Resting awhile from war's wild hurricane, Calm browses Babieca on the plain, While the brave knight goes forth to breathe the air, And to enjoy the time of blossoms fair. Spring smiles; with life's swift course that onward streams, In the world's garden lilies bloom, and dreams. 7 Rodrigo, musing, wanders through the land, Till in his path, in springs clear sun[light]shine bland, A leper stops him, holding out his hand. There face to face the prince of victory, Youthful, and beauteous like St. James to see, Stands with the living horror, all unsound, Live carrion, spreading poison stench around - And the ill-omened beggar, craving alms, Outstretches to Rodrigo suppliant palms. Rodrigo seeks his purse; it is not there. "O Cid, an alms!" the lost soul makes his prayer. "The bare alms of my hand I offer thee, Brother!". [he] He doffs his gauntlet hastily, And to the wretch holds out his bare right hand. The beggar weeps; his heart can understand. xxxxx The Constable this deed like precious wine8 Pours out, within his cup of France to shine. I add a [su] sip of liquor brewed in Spain: The Cid, when he had donned his glove again, Followed the vernal pathway fair to see. A bird flung notes of crystal from a tree; A perfume as of grace the deep sky shed, In the day's glory, o'er the landscape spread, The chapels' bells poured out o'er wood and wold - Their sweet melodious rain of sounds of gold; The soul of flowers went forth along the ways To blend with pilgrims' voices, chanting praise, Content, the great Rodrigo de Bivar Went as if in his breast he bore a star. Then from the fragrant field sprang up a maid, And came to him, in innocence arrayed, She might have been a woman; sweet and white, With frank angelic eyes that shone with light:A SPANISH-AMERICAN POET. One of the marked characteristics of the Mexicans is their love for poetry, and the high regard in which they hold their poets. They have many who have written charming things, well worthy to be better known in the United States. One poet whose work is much esteemed by his countryman is Dr. Rafael Cabrera. Born in Pueblo in 1884, he studied medicine in the same city. He began early to attract attention by his verses. While yet a student, he started, with a friend, a literary magazine, "Don Quixote", to which he contributed many poems. The publication of his book, "Presagios" established his reputation as one of the best among the younger poets of Mexico. Pedro Henriquez Urena wrote of him: "We have Here a descendant of Campeamor and Becquer. Among the various orientations of 'modernism' (a revolution already old, and which has now become the habitual atmosphere of the Spanish poetry of both worlds), this poet keeps near to the fountain head, closer to the forerunners than to the present leaders of the movement. . . . His poetry xx in its substance, is all sentiment and emotion, and it is elegant and measured in its forms."June 19 1929 Zion's Herald 785 only to admire the poet, but to love the woman without ever having seen her. One more quotation from her poems must suffice. This also is from "Themes of the Clay." It is entitled "To the Children": Many years hence, when I am a little heap of silent dust, play with me, with the earth of my heart and of my bones! If a mason gathers me up, he will make me into a brick, and I shall remain fast forever in a wall; and I hate quiet niches. If they make me a brick in a prison, I shall grow red with shame when I hear a man sob; and if I am a brick in a school, I shall still suffer, because I cannot sing with you in the early mornings. I would rather be the dust with which you play, on the country roads. Clasp me, for I have been yours; unmake me, for I made you; trample upon me, because I did not give you the whole of beauty and the whole of truth! Or only sing and run above me, so that I may kiss your beloved feet. When you hold me in your hands, recite some beautiful verse, and I shall rustle with delight between your fingers. I shall rise up to look at you, seeking among you the eyes, the hair of those whom I taught. And when you make any image out of me, break it every moment; for every moment the children broke me, with tenderness and grief! On the Stage of Human Affairs Walter W. Van Kirk THE coming into existence in Great Britain of a Labor Government is a tremendous boon to the peace of the world. The new Premier, Mr. Ramsay MacDonald, has already indicated his intention to cooperate with the United States in effecting a substantial reduction in the naval establishments of the two countries. There can be no question but that the repudiated Conservative Government was encumbered with an excess of naval traditionalism. Progress in disarmament was slow and painful. The elevation of the Labor Party to power will give fresh impetus to President Hoover's proposals for a further scrapping of naval vessels. It would seem advisable to state in this connection the fundamental tenets of Labor's foreign policy. Mr. W. Arnold-Forster, in the May issue of Foreign Affairs, an English publication, interprets what he believes to be the chief objectives of Labor internationally. "The Labor Party's foreign policy," he says, "is based on the idea that the particular interests of each nation should be subordinated to the common interest of the race as a whole." That makes a splendid beginning. A foreign policy premised on that conviction will never bring to the nations the scourge of war. "Labor," says Mr. Forster, "does not subscribe to the qualifying reservations with which the Conservative Government became a signatory to the Paris Peace Pact." He characterizes Sir Austen Chamberlain's "freedom of action" in "certain regions" of the world as so much nonsense. Labor is committed, according to the writer, to the principle of Article XI of the Covenant of the League--the principle that peace, in whatsoever region of the world, is a matter of concern not to on nation only but to the whole League. Nor does Labor admit that Secretary Kellogg is right in saying that the nation, acting separately, is competent to decide "whatever circumstances require recourse to war in self-defense." "We are not free," this writer states, "even if the Americans are free, to arrogate to ourselves the right of self-judgment as to what constitutes justifiable self-defense. If a Progressive Government comes into power in this country, those reactionary declarations will, it may be hoped, be deprived of power for injury; and the best way of doing that, I think, would be by means of resolutions in the League Assembly, defining the position resulting from the Pact plus the Covenant." LABOR, it is pointed out, stands "for the full acceptance in advance of means of peaceful settlement for all our international disputes of whatever kind. Labor is committed to not only to renunciation of the right to begin a private war [which is what Germany and France accepted at Locarno], but also to the renunciation of the right to maintain deadlock. . . . The Labor Party is committed, as very many nations are committed, to pacific settlement, not merely pacific procedure." With regard to the World Court, it is the writer's opinion that under Labor, Great Britain will indicate its willingness to sign the optional clause of that international judicial body. Mr. Forster then adds: "An event of far greater significance than has yet been commonly recognized was the decision of the Labor and Socialist International last August to oppose any government in any war for any purpose unless it had first made plain, beyond question, its willingness to submit to and accept pacific settlement in its dispute. . . . That principle of all-inclusive pacific settlement, which Labor stood for in 1924 and at all its subsequent conferences, is supported by the party today with more understanding and more determination than ever before; and the principle has now the support of the Liberal Party, of many in the Conservative Party, and of the whole of the peace movement--the support, indeed, of an overwhelming majority of our people." On the question of the "freedom of the seas," Labor's position is held to be truly prophetic of the future. "The conclusion reached is that the old freedom-of-the-seas doctrine, which was an attempt to reconcile the claims of neutrals and belligerents in private war, is really obsolete; and that, instead of fussing about codes of rules for private war, it is far better that effort should be concentrated upon getting rid of this crime of private war altogether." So say we all! It will be interesting to observe what a government based upon these liberal, even revolutionary, policies will be able to accomplish now that it has come into power. A Christian Pioneer (Continued from page 781) lustrious self by conferring upon President Baron Shosuke Sato, Ph. D., Ag. D., the degree of doctor of laws. The degree was in reality bestowed in absentia at Commencement time last year, and the investiture entrusted to Bishop James C. Baker, newly appointed to episcopal supervision of the interests of the Methodist Episcopal Church in Japan and Korea. On Saturday, May 4, in the presence of the deans of the university, the diploma was with fitting ceremony handed to Dr. Sato by Bishop Baker. A little later, before the entire student body of 2500 the venerable president was invested with the symbols of his latest honor, the cap and hood. He then introduced Bishop Baker, who addressed the professors and students on "The Influence of Great Personalities," a most appropriate theme. Dr. Sato is no stranger to the universities of America. In 1914, as exchange professor under appointment by the Carnegie Peace Foundation, he visited and delivered a series of lectures on the culture of Japan at most of the Eastern universities and many of the Middle West as well, including Ohio Wesleyan. He represents indeed the highest type of Christian internationalism; for he blends in his own culture and personality the best of both East and West, and recognizes his indebtedness to both. It was therefore most fitting that Ohio Wesleyan University, rich in traditions of Christian brotherhood with all the world, should forge this additional link of unity between Japan and the United States. In the words of Bishop Baker to the students at Sapporo, "no one land or people can monopolize a great personality. He belongs to humanity." ---There will be fourteen women in the new British House of Commons, and the list includes some names that stand out very prominently and in a fine way in the life of the nation. The change since the old days of the suffragette agitation and disturbances is a very radical one. And how few of the dire prophecies of that day have been realized!--The New Outlook. 786 ZION'S HERALD June 19 1929 Wonders of the Universe Staggering Distances W. E. Shepard THE vastness of the universe is entirely beyond the power of the human mind to grasp. About all we can do is to put figures down on paper and take a good look at them. Of course the astronomer, with his mathematical mind, together with modern inventions and means of discovery, after he has figured out these immensities, is better qualified than the ordinary layman to take in the great scope of God's creation. However, it is refreshing to us to know that our God is the creator of all things, and knowing somewhat of the greatness of all things, we can more easily comprehend what a great God we have and worship. In this study we wish to take up consideration of distances. In order properly to grasp even in a small measure the thought of some of these distances, we shall have to approach them gradually. Some distances even on earth are great to us. The little boy who found himself forty miles away from home took in the remarkable situation and declared, "If the world is as big on the other side as it is on this side, it's a whopper." I never was so fortunate, or unfortunate, as to be so far away from home in my childhood. The first time I remember traveling by rail was when I left Iowa and came on the emigrant train to California. That was a long ride and required a goodly number of days. It is a long way from Iowa to California. Had I traveled around the world, a distance of 25,000 miles, to me it would have been a tremendous journey. MORE than one imaginary trip has been taken to the moon. How very far that beautiful orb of night seems to be from us! Just think of that world swinging out in space 240,000 miles away! Many times I have gazed upon it and said to myself, "It is 240,000 miles away!" But when we look upon that great ball of fire, the sun, as it rolls above [scan cuts off last line] sun, we find it to be 25,000,000,000,000 (twenty-five trillion) miles from us. We are now getting into deep water, or rather into deep space. When the astronomer takes his trips into the vastness of the universe, he does not measure distance by miles, but rather by light years. He has figured out that a ray of light travels 186,330 miles a second, and a light year is the distance a ray of light will travel in one year. Alpha Centauri, the nearest star, is between four and five light years distant. Now we have begun to travel sure enough. We are not reckoning by the slow process of mileage now, but we are going on the wings of light. Sailing around among the nearest stars, we find that several of them are about six or eight light years from us. If you wish to know the approximate distance in miles to any star when given in light years, just multiply the number of light years by six trillion - six with twelve ciphers added. OUT from these nearest neighbors, stars are scattered in all directions, farther and farther away in space. We pass on to thirty light years, to a hundred, and to a thousand. We must not go too fast; we are already getting dizzy. Think of a thousand light years away! Multiply that by six trillion and what do we have? We have six quadrillion miles - six with fifteen ciphers added. What a trip for that beam of light! It means that the little messenger which has just arrived from that star is bringing history that transpired there one thousand years ago. But that is not the most distant star by any means. In our last article we said we should give some startling statements in this one, so prepare for the worst. It has been our endeavor to give the very latest news from the starry realms, and when something of more than usual importance has presented itself, desiring the best authority, we have consulted the astronomers connected with the greatest telescope in the world, the one on Mount Wilson, with headquarters in Pasadena, [scan cuts off last line] you must multiply this number by 1500 to get the distance to that remotest visible star in miles. Let us see what we have now - nine quintillion miles away. Put down the figure 9 and add eighteen ciphers and you have it. We are getting a long way from home - I am wondering if we shall find our way back. BUT cheer up, the worst is yet to come. Far out in the depths of space are what are called spiral nebulae, or "island universes." These vast realms are so distant, so far beyond any stars discerned with the telescope, that they are considered great universes off by themselves, like our own starry universe. We shall study these "island universes" later. When I asked one of the astronomers the other day the distance to the very farthest objects in space, he replied that one of these spirals, or "island universes," was considered the most remote. No telescope can discern their individual stars - just a hazy appearance in the far-away. The astronomer told me it was considered to be about two hundred million light years distant. This cannot really be proved, but it is a supposition. I cannot get over it. I do now know how much that is. Let me put it on paper. No, wait a minute. That "island universe" is out in a certain direction, and there are many of them. Doubtless there is another just as far away in the opposite direction, one east and the other west. What was the comforting word God gave to us when He forgave our wins? "As far as the east is from the west, so far hath he removed our transgressions from us." (Psalm 103:12) Now, if there is some world out in eastern space two hundred million light years away, and another out in western space, the opposite direction, two hundred million light years away, making four hundred million light years between them, then I am certainly interested in knowing how far God has removed my transgressions. May I venture to ask him? Here is the actual answer in actual miles - 2,350,000, - 152,000,000,000,000 miles. It is two sex [scan cut off last line] June 19 1929 ZION'S HERALD 783 The General Conference of 1792 spent several days in debating the question, and the resolution of the dissentients was finally rejected by a large majority. All about the States, ministers and local preachers and the rank and file of the church were in a rebellion against what they denounced as "prelatical government." Some of them favored a "constitution wholly on republican principles." The immediate cause of anger was the creation of a Council by Asbury. This consisted of the bishops and the presiding elders and was designed to avoid the cost and the inconvenience and the waste of time incurred in a General Conference. As a result of the attack on the infant organization, headed by Jesse Lee and James O'Kelly, it was abandoned like an unwanted foundling. Stimulated by their victory, the left-wingers then assailed the prerogative of the bishops in selecting presiding elders. It was urged that the office should be elective. The assault was repelled, and although in guerrilla warfare it has not been renewed through three decades, no change has yet been effected in the mode of appointment. It is curious that while Asbury was thus being sniped by the extremists, as late as 1781, Wesley was furtively striving to recover his authority over his American children. The smoldering discontent burst into a flame when James O'Kelly, Rice Haggard, and William McKendree, drawing other dissatisfied preachers in their train, withdrew from the church. It was a serious defection and involved the loss of hundreds of members. The returns for 1800 showed a decrease of a thousand compared with 1792. The bishop allured back McKendree. But many of the dissentients were lost, not only to Methodism. They drifted past the doors of all the churches, and numbers of them went back tot he weak and beggarly elements of the world. THEN the problems linked with the whiskey bottle and the fetters of the slaves began to emerge. The course of [scan cut last line] Asbury received, twenty five-retired, thirty- three were expelled, and nine hundred "located." That is, they often married and returned to their farm or their store or whatever had been their former occupation. But, as we have seen in the case of Strawbridge, a verdict of not guilty might often be secured for the defendant. His salary was wretched, his privations were severe, and there was then no adequate provision for a wife in the economy of the church. But as a layman, the located minister could, and often did, render splendid service to the Master. The result was that the bishop was often compelled to fill his depleted ranks with raw lads from the plow handles, or wherever he could recruit them. BUT we dare not end this chapter on a pessimistic note. Most of Asbury's yokefellows were brave and loyal and devoted and efficient. A number of them have already been named. To their bead-roll of fame may be added such worthies as William Watters, Reuben Ellis, Edward Dromgoole, William Gill, Henry Boehm, John Tunnell, and many more. Nor must we forget the consecrated laymen who were associated with ASbury. Judge White has been noted. Henry Dorsey Gough, Governor Van Cortlandt, Richard Bassett, General Russel, and Governor Tiffin are simply a selection of his intimate friends. They and many are kindred spirits all flit across the pages of Bishop John Fletcher Hurst's "History of Methodism." The work of Asbury, as we have seen, was hedged round with difficulties. But the proof of his capacity is disclosed in the fact that during the years of the war that ended in 1784, the membership of the church advanced fourfold. When in 1816 he rested from his toil, he had brought Methodism into the van among the church as a flexible and mighty evangelistic force. (To be continued next week) Justice Holmes on the Rosika [scan cuts of last line] -zenship. Some one has said that this decision is destined to be as notorious in the history of our war against war as the Dred Scott decision in the war against slavery. Justice Holmes and Brandeis united in a dissenting opinion, written by Justice Holmes; and Justice Sanford dissented on other grounds. Justice Holme's statement is destined to become historic, as it is certainly profoundly impressive. It was, in slightly abridged form, as follows" The applicant seems to be a woman of superior character and intelligence, obviously more than the ordinarily desirable as a citizen of the United States. It is agreed that she is qualified for citizenship except so far as the views set forth in a statement of fact "may show that the applicant is not attached to the principles of the Constitution of the United States and well disposed to the good order and happiness of the same, and except so so far as the same may show that she cannot take the oath of allegiance without a mental reservation." The views referred to are an extreme opinion in favor of pacifism and a statement that she would not bear arms to defend the Constitution. So far as the adequacy of her oath is concerned, I hardly can see how it is affected by the statement inasmuch as she is a woman over fifty years of age, and would not be allowed to bear arms if she wanted to. And as to the opinion, the whole examination of the applicant shows that she hold none of the new dreaded creeds, but thoroughly believes in organized government and prefers last of the United States to any other in the world. Surely it cannot show lack of attachment to the principles of the Constitution that she thinks it can be improved. I suppose that most intelligent people think that it might be. Her particular improvement looking to the ambition of war seems to me not materially different in its bearing on this case from a wish to establish government as in England, or a single house, or one term of seven years for the President. To touch a more burning question, only a judge mad with partizanship would exclude because the applicant thought the eighteenth amendment should be repealed. She is an optimist and state in strong and I do not doubt sincere words her belief that way will will disappear and that the impending destiny of mankind is to unite in peaceful leagues784 Zion's Herald June 19 1929 freedom for the thought that we hate. I think that we should adhere to that principle with regard to admission into as well as to life within this country. And recurring to the opinion that bars this applicant's way, I would suggest that the Quakers have done their share to make the country what it is, that many citizens agree with the applicant's belief, and that I had not supposed hitherto that we regretted our inability to expel them because they believe more than some of us do in the teaching of the Sermon on the Mount A Chilean Poetess Alice Stone Blackwell ONE of the most striking and lovable figures in modern Spanish-American literature is Gabriela Mistral of Chile. This is the pen name of Lucilla Alcayaza Godoy, not many years ago an obscure country school-teacher, now famous and beloved wherever the Spanish language is spoken. Shy and retiring by nature, she was made still more so by an early disappointment in love. The young man whom she was to have married proved unworthy, and she had to break off the engagement. He died soon after. She has never ceased to grieve for him; and she put her sorrow into song. She thought little of her own verses, and never published any of them. Without her knowledge, a friend sent a group of her sonnets to the "Floral Games," a sort of poetical tournament which has come down to other Spanish-speaking countries from the Middle Ages. They were received with unbounded enthusiasm, and she found herself famous overnight. The sonnets were copied in the papers of every Spanish-speaking country, and she was importuned for more; but she continued to publish very sparingly, and for years refused to let her poems be collected in book form. At last she gave the Association of Spanish Teachers of the United States permission to do it, and a few years since they brought out the book in New York. The title that she chose for the volume was "Desolación." She was promoted from her little rural school to a school in Santiago, and showered with honors. When she traveled to Mexico to be present at the dedication of a school that had been named for her, her journey through the Latin-American countries was like a royal progress. After a time she gave up teaching to devote herself to literature. She is at present in Europe. She continues to be especially interested in education, and has written much on that subject. She has also published a collection of extracts from many writers, suitable for the use of mothers and children. THIS Chilean poetess is deeply religious, a truly evangelical soul. Her aspirations are expressed in the "Hymn to the Tree," which may be rendered into English as follows: O brother tree, fast fixed in earth By brown hooks 'neath the soil that lie, Yet raising thy clean brow aloft With fervent yearning for the sky! Pitiful make me towards the dross Whose dark mire feeds me, low and dumb, Yet never let the memory sleep Of that blue land from which I come! Thou to the traveler dost announce, O tree, thy gentle presence near, By they refreshing, far-flung shade, And by thy fragrant atmosphere. So let my presence be revealed, Amid life's fields, where'er I be, By my warm, gentle influence, Shed over others silently! O tree, productive ten times o'er-- Of rosy fruit thy leaves between, Of wood for building, perfumed airs, And sheltering foliage, dense and green! Thou tree of soothing, healing balms And wondrous resins--gracious tree, Full of wild vines that weigh thee down And throats athrill with melody! Oh, make me rich in giving forth, To equal thee in fruitfulness! Tree, let my heart, my thought, become Wide as the world, to help and bless! Let all of life's activities Leave me unwearied, like to thee! From me let mighty lavishness Flow forth without exhausting me! O tree, wherein the pulse of life So tranquil beats, through peaceful hours! The fever of the century, With deep unrest, consumes my powers. Make me serene, make me serene, With noble calmness, brave and bright, Such as a breath of the divine Gave to the Grecian marbles white! Thou art a woman's gentle womb, Naught else; thy boughs with nests are rife, And every branch, soft swaying, rocks In each light nest a tiny life. Give me a leafage great and thick, To meet the need of all who roam-- Who in the human forest vast Have found no branch to be their home! Tree that, where're thy strong trunk stands On hill or plain, in every place Takest the selfsame attitude Of sheltering and protective grace! So may my soul, in each estate-- Youth, age, joy, grief, whate'er befall-- Still hold the selfsame attitude Of love unchanging, love to all! Gabriela Mistral has a series of remarkable prose poems called "Themes of the Clay." One of these is "The Enemy": I dreamed that I was already dust--that I was a meter of dark earth by the side of a road. When the loaded hay-carts passed by in the evening, the fragrance that they left in the air made me quiver, reminding me of the field where I was born. Afterwards, when the reapers passed, with their arms around one another it called up memories also; and at the plaintive sound of the twilight bells, my soul, under its blind dust, remembered God. Close to me, the soil formed a little mound of red clay, with an outline like a woman's breast; and, thinking that it too might hold a soul, I asked it: "Who are you?" It answered, "I am your Enemy--she whom you used to call, simply and terribly, 'The Enemy.'" I answered, "I used to hate when I was still flesh--flesh that had youth, flesh that had pride. But now I am dark dust, and I love even the thistle that grows above me, and the wheels of the carts that mangle me as they pass." "Neither do I now hate," she said, "and I am red like a wound because I have suffered, and they put me close to you because I asked to love you." "I wish you were nearer," I answered, "upon my arms, which never enfolded you." She answered, "I wish you were upon my heart, in the place on my heart that bore the burn of your hatred." One evening a potter passed; he sat down to rest, and he gently caressed both mounds of earth. "They are soft," he said, "they are equally soft, although one is dark and the other blood-red. I will carry them away and make a vase of them." The potter mingled us together more completely than anything is mingled in the light; more than two breezes, more than two waters. And no acid, no chemistry of men could have separated us. When he put us into a glowing kiln, we acquired the most luminous and most beautiful color that the sun ever looked upon; it was a living rose with freshly opened petals. That was a simple vase, without ornamental borders, without incisions, without anything that separated us. When the potter took it out of the glowing kiln, I thought that it was not mud, but a flower. Like God, he had attained to the making of a flower! And the vase sweetened the water to such a degree that the man who bought it took delight in pouring into it the bitterest juices--wormwood, hemlock--to receive them back made honey-sweet. And if the soul of Cain himself could have been immersed in the vase, it would have risen from it like a honeycomb dripping with honey. GABRIELA MISTRAL'S love of children shines out in many of her poems. Some of them express beautifully and poignantly the longing of a childless woman for a child. "The Poem of the Mother" is a wonderful picture of an expectant mother's feelings and hopes. It seems a thousand pities that a woman with so profoundly motherly a heart, and so intense a power of loving, should have bestowed her love upon an unworthy object, and should never have been able to get over it. And yet, in these days when there is so much fickleness, and in some quarters even a tendency to glorify inconstancy, it may not be amiss to have an occasional example of a constancy that can outlast both death and shame. There is something in Gabriela Mistral's writings which leads her readers, not August 25, 1921] (7) The Christian Register A Great South American Poet Examples of the work of Jose Chocano of Peru, whose genius is among the notable facts in the present celebration of our neighbor country's century of independence ALICE STONE BLACKWELL ON JULY 28, Peru celebrated the centennial of her independence. Among her grounds for pride was the fact that José Santos Chocano, generally considered the greatest living Spanish American poet, is a Peruvian. His character is as remarkable as his verse. Full of vigor and fire, and of a zealous wish to make the world better, at nineteen he found himself in prison at Callao for taking part in an attempted revolution. His first volume of poems was entitled "Santas Iras." But he has treated a rich variety of themes, gentle as well as warlike. Especially has he made himself the poet of Latin America, describing the wonderful scenery, the exquisite flowers, the gorgeous birds and fierce animals of the South American forest; the rivers and mountains, the cities, and the famous historical events. He has both Spanish and Indian blood in his veins, and he dwells with pride upon the brave deeds alike of the Incas and of the Conquistadores. A few samples of his work, which the writer has translated, will give a better idea of his quality than much description. The beauty of his sonorous verse, of course, loses greatly in translation:-- SUN AND MOON Within my aged mother's hands gleam bright Her grandson's locks; they seem a handful fair Of wheat, a golden sheaf beyond compare-- The sun's gold, stolen from to-morrow's light. Meanwhile her own white tresses in my sight Spread brightness all around her in the air-- Foam of Time's wave, a sacred glory rare, Like spotless eucharistic wafers white. O flood of gold and silver, full and free! You make my heart with gladness overrun. If hatred barks at me, what need I care? To light my days and nights, where'er I be, In my child's curls I always have the sun, The moon in my dear mother's silver hair! ARCHAEOLOGY Searching 'mid Eastern ruins, groping slow, When some explorer in our modern days His hand upon a hidden treasure lays-- Gold idols heathens worshipped long ago-- Then with what eager interest aglow The spirit of the Present backward strays To that far age when priests raised hymns of praise To monstrous gods deformed, with foreheads low! When our age too is dead, from tomb to tomb, Some bold explorer, groping in the gloom, Will search for what the ruins may afford. How great his fear, how strange his thoughts will be, When gleaming 'mid the shadows he shall see, Rarest, most precious treasure trove, a sword! THE MAGNOLIA Deep in the forest, full of song and fragrance, Blooms the magnolia, delicate and light, Like snowy wool among the thorns entangled, Or, on the quiet lake, a foam-flake white. Its vase is worthy of a Grecian maker, A marble wonder of the classic days; It shows its fine, firm roundness, like a lady Who with bared breast her loveliness displays. Is it a pearl? Is it a bear? We know not! Between it and the moon, with mystery rife, There is some unknown story of enchantment, In which, perhaps, a white dove lost its life; For it is pure and white and light and graceful Like a soft moonbeam on a snowbank deep, That sinks into the snow and mingles with it; Or like a dove upon the branch asleep. LIGHTNING O ragged mother, holding out thine hand Forever at the doors, in sorrow deep, And seeing always bare an empty chests And human consciences fast locked in sleep! O thou that goest gathering in the bag Of thy sore poverty forevermore Leavings that in the shipwreck of each day Follies and vices cast upon the shore! Daughter art thou to him who went to war, Marched in the ranks and shed his blood unbought, Sank down in battle, fell to earth ad died-- And no one now remembers that he fought. Sister art thou to him who fell one day Among machinery's teeth, which crush and kill. The wheels were all indifferent to his fate, But human hearts were more indifferent still. Thou wast the wife of him who at the plough Died, sunstruck, as he labored on the plain. To-day all eat the bread his wheat had made; Thou dost not eat it--and he sowed the grain! Thou art the daughter and the sister poor-- The widow, always left with child unborn; Thou art the mother who of every rag Will make a flag, when breaks to-morrow's morn. Still, as a consolation, in thy womb A son of thy dead husband thou dost bear. A cloud of rags; its thoughts are of the sky, But of a sky where tempest fill the air! Thy son will be no gentle cherub fair, No honey-cup, no Mayflower soft of bloom. O ragged mother! Lo, thou art the cloud, And thou dost bear the lightning in thy womb! (to be concluded) ________________________________ Why We Believe in God I. Affirmation of Theism LEWIS C. CARSON This article is a reply to the believers in humanism and a stout defence of faith in an absolute Power. The author is minister of the Unitarian church, Albany, N.Y. Formerly he was a teacher in the philosophical department of Harvard University, and later in the University of Indiana. His equipment for learned and concise discussion is forcefully illustrated in this contribution. THE TRADITIONAL IDEA of God, among Unitarians as well as among the more orthodox, is that of a Supreme Being, infinite, eternal, and absolute. Against this traditional idea there have arisen of late, even in our own denomination, certain tendencies toward atheism (the doctrine of no God), on the one hand, and toward the doctrine of a finite, struggling God, on the other. These two tendencies, though apparently different in character, are in fact closely related. Negatively, they stand for so many brands of theological skepticism; they are simply recrudescences of once familiar destructive ways of thinking. In their more positive aspects they reflect both a one-sided overdevelopment of humanism and a too easy descent into the vices of anthropomorphism. ________________ In an early issue Dr. Carson will have an article on "Theistic Proofs."800 The Christian Register (8) [August 25 1921 It is very unfortunate that such backward-looking tendencies as these regarding our attitude toward God should make their appearance in our midst, especially at the present time. The controversial period of Unitarianism we had supposed safely behind us; the mind of our denomination is to-day forward-looking, ready to concern itself only with what is positive and reconstructive. Atheism and finiteism are essentially dead issues, and the type of intellect that now indulges itself in these anachronisms needs nothing so much as to catch up with the thought of the times. Certainly these things represent no new discovery, except perhaps to a few who are new in theological learning, and who are unconscious of their own limitations. But for such persons to set themselves up as teachers of others and to give the impression of spiritual leadership in our churches calls for serious refutation. The theistic problem divides itself into three parts: (1) the existence of God, (2) the nature of God, and (3) the activity of God. Of these three the last-named does not here come directly into question. Our present purpose is not to resurvey the whole ground of theism, but to set forth the principal reasons, first, for believing in God's existence as against atheism, and secondly, for believing him to be infinite, eternal, and absolute in his divine nature, as against finiteism. The assertion is sometimes made that the so-called proofs of God's existence are not proofs in the proper sense at all, but only arguments. The ground of this assertion is the alleged fact that we cannot reason from what is in the mind to something that exists independently of the mind--from idea to external reality. It is also asserted that knowledge of God's existence must be gained, if at all, from a direct religious experience. And so we are told that we must not expect to convince ourselves of God's existence through any use of the purely logical reason. The error of this view, namely, that reason alone is impotent to prove the existence of God, was pointed out long ago by theologians. It rests upon a limited interpretation of the term "existence." It is true that the logical reason cannot bring forth God concretely, as one would hatch a chick out of an egg. The actual presence of God to the religious consciousness is not necessary to a proof that God exists. Let me illustrate. Years ago the astronomers Leverrier and Adams proved the existence of the planet Neptune. This they did by a process of inductive reasoning. It was not, however, until after they had turned their telescopes to a certain point in the heavens that they saw the planet for themselves. The discovery of the planet, where they looked for it, verified their processes of reasoning; yet they had proved the existence of the planet before they actually found the planet in the heavens. In the same way, God's existence can be proved inductively, from the facts of history and of human experience. Reason does not need to wait on faith or the assurance of revelation. While it cannot give us God, it can assure us that God exists. It only remains for us to seek him and to find him. The point is that atheism can take no refuge in a distrust of the logical reason. Suppose for a moment that God's existence could be successfully called into question by the critics of theism. Grant that the idea of God is an illusion: can the critics, on the basis of any other theory of the universe, give an adequate explanation of the facts of man's moral and spiritual experience? Evidence of three kinds supplies abundant testimony that belief in a Supreme Being is well-nigh universal among mankind. This fact is attested, first, in the spontaneous consciousness of individual men. We find that men, whether professedly theistic or not, spontaneously and almost instinctively use such expressions as "Would to God that . . . ! "Thank God!" "God only knows!" and so on. While the language of these expressions is of course drawn from tradition, the use of these exclamations springs out of a kind of natural, unreflective belief that there is a Supreme Master of our destinies, whose power and whose wisdom penetrant all things. Secondly, philologists have shown that in both the two well-defined groups of languages, the Semitic and the Indo-Germanic, the roots of the words that stand for God indicate either (a) the power of a Supreme Ruler of the universe (e.g., Elohim, Allah), or (b) the permanence of an immutable Being, who remains the same in the midst of all change (e.g., Zeus), or again (c) a Being who when called upon harkens to petition (e.g., Theos). Thirdly, anthropologists who have made a study of the religious conceptions of the various civilized and savage peoples report that everywhere, both in the past and in the present, there is to be found the idea of one or more powerful deities, above the order of mankind, who reward good and punish evil, and that among the more highly developed races this belief takes a monotheistic form. Can the critics of theism meet this array of facts, drawn from history and from human experience? is there any other postulate, except that of the existence of a Supreme Being, that will satisfy the demands of religion? We affirm that there is not, and that both atheism (the doctrine of no God) and finiteism (the doctrine of a God that is limited and struggling) simply crumble and fall to pieces when confronted by the test of reason. __________ What America is Doing in Germany The new dollar diplomacy and the long table which reaches across the ocean--The benefactors do not wait on political settlement, but build peace on another foundation CHARLES W. PIPKIN BERLIN, July 23, 1921. THERE is a place in Germany to-day for the inspired mind which can see a nation staggering toward the light, or, haply, welcoming a social revolution. There is an opportunity for what George Meredith calls "the rapture of the forward view." But more than a mystic vision, the world must possess a desire to help in feeding hungry mouths and building a new empire of peace in the hearts of childhood. A vision like that of Elizabeth Barrett Browning in Italy should thrill the imagination of the world to-day for children in Germany. Does God hear the cry of the child in the dark more than the noise of the myriad spindles? Perhaps God hears and is doing his best to maintain a spiritual decency in the world by placing a great opportunity before those who can work a greater miracle than feeding five thousand, for here the cry of hunger comes from a million homes. The mind of compassion has always been one of the intimate possessions of the Christian life,--it is a part of the spiritual heritage of those who call themselves 830 The Christian Register (14) [SEPTEMBER 1 1921 LITERATURE CURRENT FICTION FIND THE WOMAN. A Novel of Youth, and Mystery. By Arthur Summers Roche. New York: The Cosmopolitan Book Corporation. The influence of movies on current fiction might be illustrated by this snappy account of a young girl's adventures in New York. Rapid transitions and impending crises and unexpected revelations succeed one another as fast as the reader's mind can follow. It is cleverly done; one must admit it. MAKING GOOD. By Captain G. B. McKean. New York: The Macmillan Company. There are various thrills in this story of range life in Western Canada, written for boys who admire courage and straightforward purpose. The type of books of which this is a good example is assured of popularity from generation to generation, as long as boys keep their accepted characteristics. The stories may vary in detail and incident, but they are alike in their appeal to the love of adventure. THE BRIMMING CUP. By Dorothy Canfield. New York: Harcourt, Brace + Co. This book is to be counted among the comparatively few spring novels that have deserved and won a fresh lease of life for the summer. It will endure even longer, helping and helped by her other books, all of which are worth while. To many women, the story of Marise's growth into joyous freedom, with its acceptance of universal truths painfully wrought out by generations before us who have sought happiness and understanding, will come with reinforcement of their own strength. THE HALL AND THE GRANGE. By Archibald Marshall. New York: Dodd, Mead + Co. Mr. Marshall's leisurely unfolding of events and photographic delineation of people fit well with the summer season, when, if ever, one has time to read novels and little taste for thought problems. His tranquillity is soothing. In the present volume he sets forth with perfectly natural consequences the truth that it does not do for people who love one another to let themselves quarrel at all. SISTER SUE. By Eleanor H. Porter. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company. Criticism of Mrs. Porter's stories fails or falls short int he face of what they have meant to many, many readers. Her own short life was an exemplification of their cheery philosophy. To be grateful and loving and self-forgetful, to laugh when one feels like crying, and to sing instead of sobbing, - that is no poor lesson to have taught to others. Sister Sue was happy in her own right before the end of the book, but she also had a good deal of happiness [scan cuts off last lines] [pil]grimage to Jerusalem; and, although Chesterton may seem to us at times a somewhat fantastic philosopher, as a guide and friendly companion on such a journey as this he leaves nothing to be desired. The exigencies and diversions of travel tend to make his writing less subjective, and to restrain the exuberance of purely fanciful paradox which in some of his later books was getting to be decidedly wearisome. In The New Jerusalem we find wonderfully vivid bits of description of scenes and incidents, races and peoples brilliantly characterized in a sentence, and history events or romantic traditions summed up in a paragraph. His presentation of the claims of Zionism is not overwhelmingly convincing. Perhaps he did not mean it to be. The book he closes with an exquisite picture of the returning pilgrim: "Although I carried none of the trappings of a pilgrim I felt strongly disposed to take the privileges of one. I wanted to be entertained at the firesides of total strangers, in the mediaeval manner, and tell them interminable takes of my travels. I I wanted to linger in Dover, and try it on the citizens out of the town. I nearly got out of the train at several wayside stations, where I saw secluded cottages which might be brightened by a little news from the Holy Land. For me it seemed to me that all my fellow-countrymen must be my friends; all these English places had come much closer together after travels that seemed small in comparison as vast as the spaces between the stars. By the times I came to Beaconsfield, itself, dusk was dropping over the beech woods and the white crossroads. The distance seems to grow deeper and richer with darkness as I went up the long lanes towards my home; and in that distance, as I drew nearer, I heard the barking of a dog." -------- Poems of America BREAKERS AND GRANITE. By John Gould Fletcher. New York. John Gould Fletcher is one of the leading exponents of the New Poetry, a master of technique in the use of trenchant phrase and rhythmic sentence. His work, so those who were privileged to hear a recent lecture by Amy Lowell were told, contains some of the best examples of "polyphonic prose." The present volume is given entirely to America. The poems are arranged in groups: "New York Sketches," "In new England, " "Chicago. "Down the Mississippi, " or a more vital awakening of the imagination to a vanished phase of human activity than he gives in "Clipper sips" ---------- Irritating Italics BIBLIOPHILY OR BOOKLOVE. By James F. Willis. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company [scan cuts off last lines] or two really worthy women and by the friendship of one or two real men, devoted to the practice of goodness, and do the search for the beauty and truth of life through books." The main purpose of the author, viz., to stimulate interest in good literature, is most praiseworthy. But he would have achieved his purpose more efficiently if he had not made it too obvious in type which fairly shouts his message. ---------- Typical Womanhood in War AMELIA PEABODY TILESTON AND HER CANTEENS FOR THE SERBS. Boston: The Atlantic Monthly Press. Privately Printed. This is more than a personal memorial. It is an appealing and inspiring presentation of the spirit of the young womanhood of America wakened and exalted by the exigencies of the great war. Miss Tileston was typical of the young womanhood at its best, well-born, well-trained, courageous, of quick and firm decision, giving without question or measure eagerly and gladly to a service of infinite detail, which was sometimes extremely perilous, and was always laborious to the point of physical and nervous exhaustion. The main body of the book is given to Miss Tileston's letters from Serbia written from 1915 to 1920. There is a brief introduction summarizing the relations of Serbia to the World War, and a preliminary biographical sketch of the life of Miss Tileston by her mother, Mrs. Mary Wilder Tileston. At the end of the book are printed the memorial services held at King's Chapel, and a few personal tributes from friends and fellow-workers in the field. ---------- Discerning Essays A NEW ENGLAND GROUP AND OTHERS. By Paul Elmer More. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company. "Good wine needs no bush. " A volume of essays by Paul Elmer More requires the enconiums of no reviewer to commend it to the lovers of good literature. Suffice it to say that the eleventh volume of Shelburne Essays quite measures up to the high standard set by its predecessors. Dr. More occupies a conspicuous place among contemporary American writers, as an essayist upon literary topics of the best English classical school. He writes with a restraint, a finesse, a discernment which makes his work delightful reading. His judgments are sound. They really add something to his subjects' place in literature. In his latest volume, five of the ten essays included treat of New England writers. All of them are exceedingly well done. Those on "The Spirit and Poetry of Early New England," "Emerson," and "Henry Adams" especially deserve high praise. Of the rest, the reader will derive particular pleasure from the essay on "Samuel Butler of Erewhon," and the review of Mrs. Ward's Recollections, under the unique title of "Oxford, Women and God." ---- A. R. H. March 15, 1922 ZION'S HERALD 331 wonderful linguist and and interpreter of the Indian dialects; John Cennick, an early comrade of the Wesleys, as well as an early martyr to overwork, who is recalled whenever we sing "Children of the Heavenly King"; Christian David and Peter Böhler, who is John Wesley shared the pleasant appellation of the " 'Peter and John' of the new apostolic days"? When one reads the noble roll of names of those who have lived and died, and of those who are still living, for the honor of the Moravian Church and the glory of God, one can only echo, "These are they." Winston-Salem, N. C. Sister Water By AMADO NERVO of Mexico* Translated from the Spanish by Alice Stone Blackwell "Sister Water, let us praise the Lord." - The spirit of St. Francis of Assisi. TO THE READER: A THREAD of water falling from an imperfect faucet: a thread of water gentle and transparent, that chirrups all night and every night hear my chamber, that sings to my solitude and bears me company. A thin stream of water! What is so artless? And nevertheless, those constant, echoing drops have taught me more than I have learned from books. The soul of the water spoke to me in the dark, the holy soul of the water; and I listened with abstraction and love. What it said to me is written in pages which may be summed up thus: To be docile, to be crystal clear; this is the law and the prophets. And these pages have made a poem. I know that he who reads it will feel the soft pleasure that I felt as I listened to it from the lips of Sister Water, and this will be my reward in the task, so long as my life shall last. The Water That Flows Under Ground I sing to heaven because my unknown streams make the sap fruitful; through me the plains, the forests, and the hillocks are cool and fresh. Nobody sees me, nobody; but when the spring comes my dark current rejoices, because, if there are many shadows within, there are many sprouts without. The germs know my kiss when they lie under ground, and as soon as they are flowers, they forget me. Far from their roots the happy corollas do not remember the water that bathed their roots. What matter! I sing praises to God in a soft voice. The flower knows nothing, but the Lord, He knows. I sing to God as I run along my unknown path, happy beforehand, because I shall be a spring of water beneath the magic rod of Moses; because some day the caravans will come towards my clear stream; because my sweet waters, while they quench thirst, mirror the happy face of the thirsty one against the background of the sky, which wanders in the crystal water; because copying heaven, I bring it to earth; and thus the sad believer, who find his happiness in it, drinks, while he drinks me, the sky that throbs in my water; and as beautiful stars are shining in that sky, the man who drinks of me communes with stars. I praise the good Lord, because out of the endless strings of jewels of many- colored fire that I meet, I forge in the mysterious grottos the stalactites, the portico of the dream-castle of the gnomes; because in the hidden bosom of the [scan cut the last lines] through the caverns; and I said, "Sister Water, let us bless the Lord!" The Water That Flows Above Ground I praise heaven because it offers me, in love, gems for my depths and flowers for my margin; because, when the rock bites me and ill-uses me, there is in my blood (foam) filigree work of silver; because, when I roll in a cataclysm into the abyss, I beautify the abyss with triumphal rainbows, and the dew that springs from my white spray waters the little flowers that enamel the ravines; because, bearing my abundance through the river-bed, I am a road that goes along, as Pascal says; because, when the breeze flies across my broad plain, the snowy wing-sheaths of the sail unfold; because, on my blue shoulder, furrowed by the keel, I rock and lull to sleep and support the boldness of the keel, while God Almighty does not disturb my waters to bring about deadly catastrophes, so that the water which lulls is the water which smites. Who knows the purpose of God, who so wills it! I praise heaven because in my wandering life I am Niagara that thunders, and the Nile that gives fertility; the Maelstrom with fatal vortex, or a friendly bay; because the sea gives life and the deluge carries punishment. I have an immense docility before my Master. He says to me "Go," and I go; "Precipitate thyself," and I precipitate my waters into the deep, terrible chasm of the rock; and I sing when I run, and sing when I precipitate myself, and, singing, my clear water makes tempests or rainbows, faithful to the Lord. Sister Water, let us praise God! The Snow I am perpetual change; no one form ever lasts in me; my being is quickly transfigured; and now among the pebbles of onyx I go singing upon my pilgrimage, now I linger on frozen plains; now I fly through the air, changing into vapors, now I am a rainbow in dust of all colors, or dew that rises, or a heavy shower that falls; but God nevertheless has given me the whiteness of snow - the whiteness of the snow, enigmatic and cold, that comes down from heaven like a eucharist, that slips cheerily over the pointed roofs, and when men tread upon it, rustles like silk. Falling silently, I clothe the world in white. I arose to the height as mist, I descend to the ground as a snowflake; I arose gray from the lakes that quiet makes weary, and I descent white to the world. Oh, how beautiful it is to be white! [scan cut off last lines] from on high, and as I cannot sing my pure song with the murmurs of clear water, I sing it with whiteness. Shining brightness is a prayer, whiteness is a holy hymn. To be white is to pray; I, then, being white, pray and sing. To be luminous is another of the best songs. Dost thou not see that the stars chant psalms with their splendors? Therefore the poet king said in his hymn of love, "The heavens declare the glory of the Lord." Be thou like the snow, that falls without stain. And I cried, "Let us praise God, Sister Snow!" The Ice To cover the fishes in the depths, which are dying of cold, my pitying waves turn to crystal: and I, the restless, whose perpetual motive is to change, become silent, fall asleep, remain motionless. Ah! thou knowest not how homesick for the sun I am under the white savannah, ever cold! Thou knowest not the anguish of the wave that immolates to the cold its smile, its undulating woman-like rhythms, and that becomes - like Lot's wife - an iceberg. To be an iceberg is to be the statue of the wave. Thou knowest not this anguish; but I do not rebel; and wishing my God to be praised in everything, I make my block of ice send out radiations, and instead of a succession of blue waves, I am an azure plain. In the polar nights my cliffs are beacon lights; I reflect the rosy hue of the aurora borealis, the light of the sun as it grows stronger, and with a seraph's joy I lift up my crystal rocks, over which slowly clamber the walrus and the seal, followed by Laplanders hungering for their oil. Now seest thou how the will of heaven is revered? And I prayed, "Let us praise God, Brother Ice!" The Hail Tin, tin, tin! I fall from the sky with a mad drum-roll upon the fields, and harry all the grass. Tin, tin! Good-evening, sister meadow! Poet, good-evening! Open thy window to me! I am transparent and geometric; I have enamel and whiteness as dainty and smooth as teeth, and I multiply myself in a flood of white opals. The clear water sings, the snowflake rustles; I - I chime! Tin, tin, tin, tin, my tower is the unsubstantial cloud. Listen to my little bells of clear crystal! The snow is sad, the water turbulent; I, unfortunate, am mad enough to bind, tin, tin, tin, tin! Blame? No, surely, I do not deserve blame. Through me hot evenings gain coolness; I struggle with the fierce breath of summer. I am beautiful. Let us praise God, Brother Hail! The Vapor Vapor is the soul of the water, my brother, as the dew is the smiles of the water, and the lake her glances, and the spring her meditation, the rain her tears, her impatience the torrent, the rivers her arms, her body the shoreless plain of the seas, her breasts the waves, her forehead the ice-storehouses of tranquil mountains, and the waterfall her hair of liquid gold. [scan cuts off last lines]332 Zion's Herald March 15, 1922 wake, now the heavenly castle of mother-of-pearl, now the plumage of a peacock made of precious stones, now the lace of a vast fan, now the crater that throws out flashes of fire. Because the water was good, God transfigures it! "God! God is always on thy lips, as in a temple. God, always God! On the other hand, I never behold Him. If God exists, why does He not let us see His footprints? Why does He hide Himself cunningly from our yearning? Why is not His name found written in stars amid the magnificent enamel work of the sky?" "Poet, it is because thou seekest Him with that arrogant science which demands tests and figures of the abyss. Go look at the obscure springs of thy life, and there wilt thou see His face. God is within thee. Seek in silence, and pray. God will hear thy cry. Seek the shadow and listen: God speaks in the secret place. Lay aside thy great presumptuousness of pride and guilt!" "It is done." "What dost thou see now?" "The face of the Infinite One." "And art thou happy?" "Brother Vapor, let us praise God!" The Sea Mist Mist is the dream of the water, which becomes light-gray smoke. Thou knowest not the essence of the mist! The mist is the dream of the water, and in its endeavor to dematerialize itself, it becomes wholly a dream. Seen through its marvelous veil, brute matter seems to disappear. The tower is a phantom of vagueness that rouses astonishment; everything wrapped in its blond lace is changed to a phantom. Even the man who passes through its tranquil zone is transformed to a phantom, to an outline. The mist is the dream of the water, which becomes a light-gray smoke. Thou knowest not the essence of the mist, of the mist that dreams of the far-off dawn! And I said, Let us extol the Lord, Sister Mist! The Voices of the Water My drop seeks the entrails of the rock and penetrates them. On me floats the oil that burns in the shrines. Through me the miracle of the locomotive traces its course over the ruled board of the rails. I paint the watercolor. My mist and thy memories are in some strange way twins; dost thou not see how they make everything divine? I lend to glass vessels the vibrations of wonderful flutes. I am preventative and nurse in modern clinics. And I, above the roses, am the holy incense-bearer of dawn, in the springtime. I am prodigal of motor force in my fall. I freeze the branches. In far distant times I sang a song to the sirens. In my sleep I dream azure dreams, and those dreams are lotus flowers. Poet, who by heaven's grace knowest us, dost thou not sing with us? Yea, Sister Voices, I sing. The Water of Many Forms "Water always takes the shape of the vessels that contain it." So say the sciences that scrutinize my steps and try in vain to analyze me. Brother, I am the type of the highest resignation. Dost thou not see that every instant my form is annihilated? Today I am a restless torrent, and yesterday I was calm water; today in a spherical vessel I am round, and only yesterday showed myself cylindrical in the full jars, and thus my being goes through Pythagorean changes, hour after hour: ice, current, mist, vapor, gilded by the light of day--I am everything, and adapt myself to everything. Men do not know it, but God knows it. Why dost thou rebel? Why is thy spirit agitated? Foolish one! If thou knewest the infinite happiness of bending to the purpose of the Lord who rules us! What dost thou want? Why dost thou suffer? What dost thou dream of? What afflicts thee? Fancies that perish as fast as they appear; while I sing, I sing, I sing! I sing to the unknown will, while thou grievest. I sing when I am clear water, I sing when I am a drop, and while I go, like Prometheus, following my destiny, I murmur, "Let the holy law of God be fulfilled!" Why does thy soul form so many aimless longings? Dost thou seek to be happy? Well, then, be like the water; be like the water, full of oblation and heroism; blood in the chalice, grace of God in Baptism. Be like the water, docile to the Infinite Law; that prays in the churches, where it is consecrated, and murmurs in the pond, rocking the canoe. Wouldst thou be happy? Well, then, be like the water: put on with a song the garment in which the Lord clothes thee, and never be sad, for sadness is a sin.--Let the ends of life be fulfilled in thee. Be a slope, not a cliff; transform thyself, and rest where the Lord pleases, and as thou goest in pursuit of the end, murmur, "Let God's holy law be fulfilled!" If thou actest thus, thou shalt obtain a great treasure of riches; if thou art mist, thou shalt be golden mist; if thou art a cloud, the evening shall give thee its red; if thou art a spring, thou shalt see the sun trembling on thy breast; if thou art a lake, thy wavelets shall have edges of amber; and if thou art an ocean, the moon shall silver thee. If thou art a torrent, thou shalt have foam of changeful hues, and tresses of blossoming rainbow if thou art a waterfall. Thus spake to me the water, in mystic reproach, and I, yielding to the holy counsel of the Sorceress, and knowing that He who speaks in the night is the Father, cried with the Apostle, "Lord, what wilt thou have me to do?" Across n the Steerage PAUL DU BOIS WITH many misgivings and a sense of duty, I went to the ship to find my berth as a steerage passenger from Palermo, Italy, to New York. If it hadn't been for my good friend D'Anchise, who made things easy for me by introducing me to the port officials and the royal commissioner of the ship, the adventure would have been filled with many more uncertainties. We took a painted Sicilian rowboat and were rowed to the ship, but upon presenting my ticket to the ship's officer, I was informed that I would have to have an inspection card, for which I promised to return after taking my luggage below and locating my berth. So with D'Anchise I went below. As we were going down the second stairway one Italian remarked to another that the company should treat an American better than to make him travel third class, and another in reply said that if I wanted his bunk he would trade with me. These remarks made me feel at once as though I was among friends. Let me say right at the start that the steerage isn't so bad as it is usually painted. I expected to find a deep, dark, dirty hole. I did find it deep, but it was neither dark nor dirty. Our quarters were electrically lighted from early evening until late morning, the light being sufficient for some reading and all necessary purposes. Neither was it dirty. The floor was scrubbed every morning. Why are these Italians coming to the United States? Because America offers more work at better pay. Here there is economic opportunity. One boy, when asked about this, said, "I'm going to America to stay--there's nothing to do in Italy--what can a man do in Italy?" Another said, "In America the Government keeps order." One man had left a good business in America ad gone back to Italy, and when I asked him why, he said, "Do you really want to know why?" "Why, yes," I said, "if you don't mind telling." "Well," he said, "I'll tell you --because I was crazy." Shipboard Observation of Italian Traits From certain observations on board, the Italian would seem to be one who doesn't like to take a bath; sleeps in his clothes, or at least part of them; spits on the floor where others must walk; argues with great animation about little things; doesn't care to read (because in many cases he can't); loves music; ignores married women and looks after young women when they pass; goes to bed about seven or eight o'clock in the evening and gets up about five or six in the morning; likes to be shaved by the barber, but not every day; loves Dante and often can recite many verses from the "Divina Commedia"' loves to joke and have a good time; considers wine an indispensable part of his daily fare; is economical, always considering the cost of things, and always asking others how much they have paid for things; criticizes the capitalist for putting his money in the bank instead of putting it into industries; peels oranges and fruit, cracks walnuts, and throws the rubbish at his feet; looks on America as the country that offers more work at better pay, as the country that offers real opportunity, as the country without the social distinctions with which he is familiar at home, and as the land of the free as symbolized in the great statue of "Liberty Enlightening the World"; smokes but doesn't chew (the young men smoke cigarettes, and the older men pipes or strong cigars); loves poetry and things beautiful; is polite--always asks to be excused when leaving a group, not only one of women, but even one entirely of men; asks his friends most intimate and personal questions; cordial, friendly, generous, and happy. Judging from certain facts, I should say that the "average" Italian's intelligence-- i. e. the immigrant Italian--is that of an American boy of twelve to fourteen years of age. For example, I noticed the games played on board the ship and found that the two which were played most frequently required no more than that intelligence. Immigrants asked one another, and me, intimate and personal questions. The day after hearing my name called out by the steward, one of my friends said to me, "I heard you got a telegram yesterday August 22, 1915 SPANISH-AMERICAN POETS __________ NOTABLE SINGERS OF MEXICO __________ APPEALING VERSE SAMPLED __________ Characteristic Southern Interpretation of the Moods of Nature and Man Sympathetically Translated __________ [ Written by ALICE STONE BLACKWELL for The Sunday Republican.] Every Spanish-American country has its own poets; and some of these are well worthy of being more widely known in the United States. Mexico, in particular, which we are accustomed to think of mainly as a land of bloody revolutions, has a large group of native poets, some of them writers of marked ability. Just at this time, when the Red Cross is appealing for help for the starving people of their poetic talent may be interest. Mexican poetry is largely sorrowful. An exception is the work of Manuel Jose Othon (born 1838). His main themes are religion and the beauties of Nature. Among his many sonnets, one of the most spirited is "The Stars":-- Quien dice que los hombres nos parecen, desde el profundo mar del firmament, atomos agitados por el viento. gusanos que se arrastran y perecen? No! Sus craneos que heroicos se estremecen son el mas grande ascombrador portento; fraguas donde se forja el pensamiento y que mas que nosotras resplandecen! Bajo la estrecha cavidad caliza, las ideas, en ignea llamarada contemplamos arder, y es, ante ellas, toda la creacion polvoy ceniza. Los astros son materia inanimada y las humanas frentes son estrellas! Who says that men, as we look down to see From the deep ocean of the azure sky, Seem but like motes before the wind that fly, Or worms that creep and die, of low degree? Not so! Their brains, that throb with courage free-- These are a marvel that naught else comes nigh-- Forges where thoughts upon the anvil lie. Brighter by far than we can ever be. Beneath that little arch of fragile clay We see ideas with flaming splendor gleam. Defying time and space and mortal bars. Compared with these, to us who watch always, Ashes and dust doth all creation seem. Star are dead matter; human brows are stars! The poet esteemed above all others in Mexico is Manuel Gutierrez Najera (born 1859, died 1895). One of his finest poems is "Dead Waves":-- In the deep darkness underneath the ground That never has been reached by mortal sight, There silent currents of black water glide In an unending course amid the night. Some of them, by the shining steel surprised That pierces through the rocks to their dark home. Limpid and boiling to the light gush forth In a vast plume of white and slivery foam. The others in deep darkness evermore Glide silently upon their winding way. Doomed to a course unending under ground, Failing to find an outlet to the day. The noble rivers to the ocean flow Past field and forest, meadow-bank and lawn, Reflecting in their silvery, changeful glass The stars of heaven, the pale tints of dawn. Veils of fair, fragrant blossoms make them glad. Nymphs bathe in their clear current with delight; They fertilize the rich and fruitful vales; Their waves are singing water, free and bright. In the white marble fountain, lo! the stream Is mischievous and playful, sporting there Like a young girl who, in a palace hall, Scatters the pearls that form her necklace fair. Now like a shining arrow it shoots up, Now like a fan it opens in its flow: It splashes glittering diamonds on the leaves, Or sinks to slumber, singing soft and low. The waives that in the mighty ocean swell Assail the craggy rocks, upsurging high: Their raging fury shakes the solid earth, And rises up in tumult to the sky. Those waves are life and power invincible; The water is a queen with wrath on fire. And against heaven like a rival fights, And wages war with gods nd monsters dire. How different is the sable current, doomed To endless prison, far from daylight's sheen. Dwelling so very deep below the ground That there not even death itself is seen! That stream has never known what light may be; It neither sings nor wails, that sunless wave. The subterranean stream is dumb, unknown; It wanders on its way, a mute, blind slave. Like such a stream, to all the world unknown-- Like such a stream, whose prisoned waters roll Surrounded by thick darkness--such are you, O dark and silent currents of my soul! Whoe'er hath known the course your waters take? Retreating from its aspect fair to see. Fled, as if terrified by so much light. Later my heart, with fragrant odors filled, Was like a shadowy, broad-branching tree. There, as the sun rose higher in my sky, Sweet birds of azure used to sing to me. The sun went down, and then came on the night. My long, dark night of sorrow and despair. In its thick blackness they were lost to me. The melodies that filled my heart with glee. Illusion's birds of azure, bright and fair! Sun of my sky, you gladden me no more! My heart is now a church in ruins cold.-- A mournful nest of birds with plumage black, Which the deep shadows of my grief enfold. One mystic moonbeam's faint, pale thread of light Alone illumes the darkness with its ray. Let not its light be quenched! It is to me The only joy of my sad destiny. A memory of youth now past away. O time! I leave the doors all standing wide. Swiftly come in! If it indeed be true That all things you destroy and sweep away, Bear hence with you these dark-hued birds, I pray. As you bore hence the white birds and the blue! Power of imagination and grace of form are untied in "A Song of Hands," by Jesus E. Valenzuela (born 1867):-- Hands--like soft blossoming buds-- Of children that search for the breast. In the calm sea of love's gaze Cradled and sweetly caressed! Small hands of Jesus the Christ, In glory ineffably bright; Hands like soft blossoming buds, Hands bathed in milk and in light. Fairy hands, nimble and fair. O'er the piano that stray, Like a vague dream of life of the void. A dream from some realm far away! The winged expression are ye Of a sigh, or some cry on the air. Floating in infinite space, Fairy hands, nimble and fair. Hands of the ivory's white, In the shade of the mantle obscure Lighting up prayer with your gleams Gentle and starlike and pure! Through your whiteness have passed all the woes That ever humanity knew. With the rosary's beads, one by one, O hands of the ivory's hue! Hands filled with charity's grace. Hands which to hunger's dark night Carry forth comfort and food. Bread of hope's joy, of truth's light! Noble, mysterious hands Of kindness unending, sincere! Brothers are we, one and all. Hands full of charity dear! O pale, perished hands of the dead For love or as martyrs who died! Leaves of one lily are ye. Hands that were clasped or spread wide; Hands full of questions, desires, Aspirations and yearnings unsaid-- Hands to the heavens outstretched-- O pale, perished hands of the dead! Hands with the sword in their grasp. That by warfare a scepter have won, And fill the whole world with the flood Of rivers of blood that o'errun! Hands of the working folk, armed When quarrels or battles have birth-- Hands with the sword in their grasp, Red hands of the great ones of earth! Hands that are bleeding and hard. That plow up the stern, arid soil, And scarce feel the flight of the hours, So heavy and cruel the toil: Those in the workshop that sweat, That set up the type in all lands, Those that meet death in the mines-- Hard, rough and blood-spotted hands! Hands that are wonted to toil. Strong hands of the brave and the free! When on the hights, in the depths, Vibrates o'er land and o'er sea. Stirring the world from the roots, The anger of justice on fire-- hands that are wonted to toil. You shall that day hold the lyre! Mexican poetry is often full of color; witness the sonnet, "Twilight," by Joaquin Arcadio Pagaza, bishop of Vera Cruz (born 1839):-- Slowly the sun descends at fall of night, And rests on clouds of amber, rose and red: The mist upon the distant mountains shed Turns to a rain of gold and silver light. The evening star shines tremulous and bright Through wreaths of vapor, and the clouds o'erhead Are mirrored in the lake, while soft they spread And break the blue of heaven's azure hight. Bright grows the whole horizon in the west like a devouring fire! a golden hue Spreads o'er the sky, the trees, the plains that shine. The bird is singing near its hidden nest Its latest song amid the falling dew. Enraptured by the sunset's charm divine. Mexico's wonderful sunsets have inspired innumerable poems. Efren Rebolledo writes:-- The weary sun slowly Descends to his rest Behind the soft mist Of gold foam in the West. From the heavens hang veils Of bewildering shades-- Deep violet velvets And golden brocades. O beautiful faces, Necks slender and fair, Wistful eyes, rosy lips, Knots of cloudy, soft hair! Of gifts and bright hopes How immense is the sum. Where hearts yet are desolate, Lonely and dumb! And Vincente Manuel Llorente says:-- It is the hour of love. Now silently The day, departing, throws its last sad sheen Upon the lemon grove, umbrageous, green-- A kiss divine from yonder sunset sky. And shooting stars across the heavens flash, Like tears of gold upon the sapphire hight. The sea to thee will waft his cooling breath. Veiled by thin mists that o'er the waters roam. Because the pearly shell, the nest of love, Richly deserves the kisses of the foam. O maiden, come! The tide begins to rise, The land breeze now is blowing, warm and light. Thou shalt have tortoise-shell to deck thine hair. And ruddy coral for thy neck so white. The sweet girl came down, trembling, and she bathed Her white feet where the tide the seabeach laves. Later, when she had gone away in tears, I found fair pearls within the briny waves. A stronger note is struck by Ignacio Ancona Horruytiner in "Virtue":-- When the deep-sounding ocean bursts in white, Longing to show its wild, resistless might, Tossing its waves and struggling stormily, Does it not give you inner joy to see That still, the more the billows dash and comb, The purer and more white springs up the foam? Like to the sea with stormy billows rife, The seething ocean of our human life Tortures and terrifies, with savage roar; And virtue, warred against forevermore. Yet, like the foam, more beautiful doth rise, Still gazing toward her home beyond the skies. Equally spirited is this "Bacarole," by Manuel M. Gonzalez:-- Ye fishers who, in hours of azure calm, Leaving the beach, put forth upon the flood-- Ye who, without a fear or care afloat. Still singing, singing in your swift-sailed boat. Ask from the sea an easy boon of food! A laughing breeze impels you as you go; The sleeping wave, that has forgot to foam. Without resentment lets your nets be spread, And free from pain you earn your daily bread. Close to the shore, close to your hearth and home. Ye are no seamen, fishers of the calm! He is the sailor, in his soul who knows Struggles as fierce as on the sea prevail In times of tempest wild and stormy gale; He is the sailor who with vigor rows! To you the sea gives fish already dead. That, prisoned in the mesh within the wave, Your hand can without effort grasp and keep. It grants the sailor, in its bosom deep, Pearls and red corals, glory and a grave. The poets quoted in this article are only a few of Mexico's many singers. When the knowledge of Spanish becomes more general in the United States we shall find that the republics to the south of us afford not only great opportunities for trade, but a wide and almost unexplored field of literary interest. __________ JONES, SUPERPATRIOT ---------- How at Last He Found an Extraordinary Way to Prove It [From Punch] Jones (I'm very sorry, but his name is really Jones) is a true patriot, every inch of him, but unfortunately he hasn't many inches. Nevertheless, the war wasn't a week old before Jones placed all 61 of them at the disposal of the nation. And they threw him out because 61 was not enough. Later when the official altitude scale was reduced he offered them again, but on this occasion they threw him out because his teeth came from Welbeck street. And when subsequently the war office decided that false teeth were not necessarily a barrier to a military career-- were, in fact, a valuable asset in connection with bully-beef--they threw him out because he saw 19 spots on a card that only possessed seven. And then, when the authorities at last came to look upon pince-nez with a more benignant eye, they threw him out because while they had been busy rejecting him for paucity of inches, falsity of teeth, and debility of eyes, Jones had passed the age limit, and when he wanted to argue the point with the recruiting officer they threw him out once more for luck. Then he tried for the special constabulary, and the first night he was on duty he contracted pneumonia, bronchitis, influenza and laryngitis. And they threw him out of that because they wanted special constables, and not collectors of germs. When he got better--and his convalescence was a long business notwithstanding that his sentences ran concurrently--he applied to join the A. A. C. and would have got in if the medical officer had not wrung him up on the stethoscope in order to hear his wheels go around. As it was, the M. O. informed Jones that he couldn't pass him into the A. A. C., but if he was really anxious to "serve," he might try and get taken on at an A. B. C., and it finally took a retired rear-admiral, a chief petty officer, a sergeant of marines and an elder brother of Trinity house to throw him out on that occasion. Disappointed but undaunted, Jones next attempted to qualify as a stretcher-bearer in the home service branch of the Red Cross. There, at any rate, they didn't seem so particular whether his lungs squeaked or not. But even they threw him out when they found that Jones's end of the stretcher was always six inches nearer to the ground than the opposite end. In desperation he tried to join his local defense corps, but they wouldn't have him there because, they said, he completely spoiled the look of their parade. And when Jones expostulated and ? Characteristic Southern Interpretation of the Moods of Nature and man Sympathetically Translated __________ [Written by ALICE STONE BLACKWELL for The Sunday Republican.] Every Spanish-American country has its own poets; and some of these are well worthy of being more widely known in the United States. Mexico, in particular, which we are accustomed to think of mainly as a land of bloody revolutions, has a large group of native poets, some of them writers of marked ability. Just at this time, when the Red Cross is appealing for help for the starving people of that distracted country, some samples of their poetic talent may be of interest. Mexican poetry is largely sorrowful. An exception is the work of Manuel Jose Othon (born 1838). His main themes are religion and the beauties of Nature. Among his many sonnet, one of the most spirited is "The Stars":-- Quien dice que los hombres nos paracen, desde el profundo mar del firmament, atomos agitados por el viento, gusanos que se arrastran y perecen? No! Sus craneos que heroicos se estremecen son el mas grande ascombrador portento; fraguas donde se forja el pensamiento y que mas que nosotras respandecen! Bajo la estrecha cavidad caliza, las ideas, en ignea llamarada contemplamos arder, y es, ante elias, toda la creacion polvo y ceniza. Los astros son materia inanimada y las humanas frentes son estrellas! Who says that men, as we look down to see From the deep ocean of the azure sky, Seem but like motes before the wind that fly. Or worms that creep and die, of low degree? Not so! Their brains, that throb with courage free-- These are a marvel that naught else comes nigh-- Forges where thoughts upon the anvil lie, Brighter by far than we can ever be. Beneath that little arch of fragile clay We see ideas with flaming splendor gleam, Defying time and space and mortal bars. Compared with these, to us who watch always, Ashes and dust doth all creation seem, Stars are dead matter; human browns are stars! The poet esteemed above all others in Mexico is Manuel Gutierrez Najera (born 1859, died 1895). One of his finest poems is "Dead Waves":-- In the deep darkness underneath the ground That never has been reached by mortal sight, There silent currents of black water glide In an unending course amid the night. Some of them, by the shining steel surprised That pierces through the rocks to their dark home. Limpid and boiling to the light gush forth In a vast plume of white and silvery foam. The others in deep darkness evermore Glide silently upon their winding way. Doomed to a course unending under ground, Failing to find an outlet to the day. The noble rivers to the ocean flow Past field and forest, meadow-bank and lawn, Reflecting in their silvery, changeful glass The stars of heaven, the pale tints of dawn. Veils of fair, fragrant blossoms make them glad, Nymphs bathe in their clear current with delight; They fertilize the rich and fruitful vales; Their waves are singing water, free and bright. In the white marble fountain, lo! the stream Is mischievous and playful, sporting there Like a young girl who, in a palace hall, Scatters the pearls that form her necklace fair. Now like a shining arrow it shoots up, Now like a fan it opens in its flow; It splashes glittering diamonds on the leaves, Or sinks to slumber, singing soft and low. The waves that in the mighty ocean swell Assail the craggy rocks, upsurging high; Their raging fury shades the solid earth, And rises up in tumult to the sky. Those waves are life and power invincible; The water is a queen with wrath on fire. And against heaven like a rival fights, And wages war with gods nd monsters dire. How different is the sable current, doomed To endless prison, far from daylight's sheen. Dwelling so very deep below the ground That there not even death itself is seen! That stream has never known what light may be; It neither sings nor wails, that sunless wave. The subterranean stream is dumb, unknown; It wanders on its way, a mute, blind slave. Like such a stream, to all the world unknown-- Like such a stream, whose prisoned waters roll Surrounded by thick darkness--such are you, O dark and silent currents of my soul! Whoe'er hath known the course your waters take? No kindly friend goes down where shadows sleep To look upon you in the dark--and yet Your captive waves reach deep, oh, very deep! Should you be given an outlet to the day, You would gush upward from your sunless home Like living water in a boiling jet That rises in a column white with foam. But no--you ne'er will feel the gaze of light; Still through the night your rayless waves must roll. Go on, forever gliding in the dark. O deep and silent currents of my soul! A great favorite with many Mexicans is Salvador Diaz Miron (born 1853). He has written much ardent love poetry. To a lady who rejects his love, but who lays her hand on his head seeking to comfort him, the poet says:-- 'Tis vain, O woman! Thou dost not console me. We are a world apart, in naught the same. If thou art snow, then why dost thou not freeze me? Why do I melt thee not, if I am flame? Thine hand, so spiritual and transparent, When it caresses my submissive head, Is but the snow-cap crowning the volcano, Whose burning lava-depths beneath it spread! Another poet well esteemed in Mexico is Agustin F. Cuenca (born 1850, died 1884). His sonnet, "Prismatic Lights," is dedicated to his wife, Laura Mendez de Cuenca, herself a poet:-- Below the west that blows all ruddily, Day's car of blazing gold hath sunk from sight. Soon, Venus, thy rosette of silver bright Upon Night's dusky mantle clasped will be. Rich jewel of the skies! Alike in thee The man who mourns o'er unjust Fortune's slight. And he on whom her choicest favors light, Their sorrow and their joy reflected see Pure innocence beholds thee radiant, clear; Beauty perceives thee gloriously fair; Love sees thee tender; and the heart that sighs Beholds thee mournful. Every creature here Possesses, in delight or in despair, A crystal glass through which to read the skies Sun of my sky, you gladden me no more! My heart is now a church in ruins cold.-- A mournful nest of birds with plumage black, Which the deep shadows of my grief enfold, One mystic moonbeam's faint, pale thread of light Alone illumes the darkness with its ray. Let not its light be quenched! It is to me The only joy of my sad destiny, A memory of youth now past away. O Time! I leave the doors all standing wide. Swiftly come in! If it indeed be true That all things you destroy and sweep away, Bear hence with you these dark-hued birds, I pray. As you bore hence the white birds and the blue! Power of imagination and grace of form are united in "A Song of Hands," by Jesus E. Valenzuela (born 1869):-- Hands--like soft blossoming buds-- Of children that search for the breast, In the calm sea of love's gaze Cradled and sweetly caressed! Small hands of Jesus the Christ, In glory ineffably bright; Hands like soft blossoming buds, Hands bathed in milk and in light. Fairy hands, nimble and fair. O'er the piano that stray, Like a vague dream of life or the void, A dream from some realm far away! The winged expression are ye Of a sigh, or some cry on the air, Floating in infinite space, Fairy hands, nimble and fair. Hands of the ivory's white, In the shade of the mantle obscure Lighting up prayer with your gleams Gentle and starlike and pure! Through your whiteness have passed all the woes That ever humanity knew, With the rosary's beads, one by one, O hands of the ivory's hue! Hands filled with charity's grace. Hands which to hunger's dark night Carry forth comfort and food, Bread of hope's joy, of truth's light! Noble, mysterious hands Of kindness unending, sincere! Brothers are we, one and all. Hands full of charity dear! O pale, perished hands of the dead For love or as martyrs who died! Leaves of one lily are ye. Hands that were clasped or spread wide; Hands full of questions, desires, Aspirations and yearnings unsaid-- Hands to the heavens outstretched-- O pale, perished hands of the dead! Hands with the sword in their grasp, That by warfare a scepter have won, And fill the whole world with the flood Of rivers of blood that o'errun! Hands of the working folk, armed When quarrels or battles have birth-- Hands with the sword in their grasp. Red hands of the great ones of earth! Hands that are bleeding and hard. That plow up the stern, arid soil, And scarce feel the flight of the hours, So heavy and cruel the toil; Those in the workshop that sweat, That set up the type in all lands. Those that meet death in the mines-- Hard, rough and blood-spotted hands! Hands that are wonted to toil Strong hands of the brave and the free! When on the hights, in the depths, Vibrates o'er land and o'er sea. Stirring the world from the roots, The anger of justice on fire-- Hands that are wonted to toil. You shall that day hold the lyre! Mexican poetry is often full of color; witness the sonnet, "Twilight," by Joaquin Arcadio Pagaza, bishop of Vera Cruz (born 1839):-- Slowly the sun descends at fall of night, And rests on clouds of amber, rose and red: The mist upon the distant mountains shed Turns to a rain of gold and silver light. The evening star shines tremulous and bright, Through wreaths of vapor, and the clouds o'erhead Are mirrored in the lake, while soft they spread And break the blue of heaven's azure hight. Bright grows the whole horizon in the west Like a devouring fire! a golden hue Spreads o'er the sky, the trees, the plains that shine The bird is singing near its hidden nest Its latest song amid the falling dew. Enraptured by the sunset's charm divine. Mexico's wonderful sunsets have inspired innumerable poems. Efren Rebolledo writes:-- The weary sun slowly Descends to his rest Behind the soft mist Of gold foam in the West. From the heavens hang veils of bewildering shades-- Deep violet velvets And golden brocades. O beautiful faces, Necks slender and fair, Wistful eyes, rosy lips, Knots of cloudy, soft hair! Of gifts and bright hopes How immense is the sum, Where hearts yet are desolate, Lonely and dumb! And Vincente Manuel Llorente says:-- It is the hour of love. Now silently The day, departing, throws its last sad sheen Upon the lemon grove, umbrageous, green-- A kiss divine from yonder sunset sky. The fields with perfume breathe with music sigh. And woo the mind to reverie serene: The meadow lark's sweet lute now quivers keen; The heart is lulled by evening's harmony The orange groves their odors sweet and strong Yield lavishly: the dewy blossoms white Unfold their petals to the subtle breeze. Meanwhile the sun, inspirer of my song, A monarch vanquished by the coming night, His greatness hides behind the western seas. A delicate fancy is shown in "My Fountain," by Luis G. Ortiz (born 1835, died 1894):-- Hard by the cottage, innocent and free. Where rocked my cradle,--near that hidden cot. Its ripples overflowing from their grot. Burst forth my fountain, lost in greenery. When the new moon was mirrored radiantly On its clear wave in that sequestered spot. How oft I cried, "Oh, happy is their lot Who cross the vast expanses of the seas!" It was God's will that I the deck should tread. And find my wish to full fruition grown Amid the billows of the tossing sea; God in the deep I saw, and bowed my head: And now, upon the sea, I dream alone, My humble, sweet and murmurous fount, of thee! Justo Sierra (born 1848) was for many years minister of education and of the fine arts under President Diaz. He has written some striking historical poems, including a noble ode to Columbus. A good example of his lighter style is "A Song of the Shore":-- Let the sweet maiden to the shore come down; I will seek beauteous pearls for her delight. Let her permit the sleeping water there With crystal to surround her foot so white. Oh, let her come, the pure and smiling maid! Her charms the ocean clear will mirror well; And while the darksome night is falling fast, Stories of love he in her ear will tell. When in the Orient the day shall dawn. she will behold white, filmy clouds on high, which, like the swans that float within the bay. And ruddy coral for thy neck so white. The sweet girl came down, trembling, and she bathed Her white feet where the tide the sea-beach laves. Later, when she had gone away in tears, I found fair pearls within the briny waves. A stronger note is struck by Ignacio Ancona Horruytiner in "Virtue":-- When the deep-sounding ocean busts in white, Longing to show its wild, resistless might, Tossing its waves and struggling stormily, Does it not give you inner joy to see That still, the more the billows dash and comb, The purer and more white sprigs up the foam? Like to the sea with stormy billows rife. The seething ocean of our human life Tortures and terrifies, with savage roar; And virtue, warred against forevermore. Yet, like the foam, more beautiful doth rise, Still gazing toward her home beyond the skies. Equally spirited is this "Bacarole," by Manuel M. Gonzalez:-- Ye fishers who, in hours of azure calm, Leaving the beach, put forth upon the flood-- Ye who, without a fear or care afloat. Still singing, singing in your swift-sailed boat. Ask from the sea an easy boon of food! A laughing breeze impels you as you go' The sleeping wave, that has forgot to foam. Without resentment lets your nets be spread, And free from pain you earn your daily bread. Close to the shore, close to your hearth and home. Ye are no seamen, fishers of the calm! He is the sailor, in his soul who knows Struggles as fierce as on the sea prevail In times of tempest wild and stormy gale; He is the sailor who with vigor rows! To you the sea gives fish already dead. That, prisoned in the mesh within the wave Your hand can without effort grasp and keep. It grants the sailor, in its bosom deep, Pearls and red corals, glory and a grave. The poets quoted in this article are only a few of Mexico's many singers. When the knowledge of Spanish becomes more general in the United States we shall find that the republics to the south of us afford not only great opportunities for trade, but a wide and almost unexplored field of literary interest. __________ JONES, SUPERPATRIOT __________ How at Last He Found an Extraordinary Way to Prove It [From Punch.] Jones (I'm very sorry, but his name is really Jones) is a true patriot, every inch of him, but unfortunately he hasn't many inches. Nevertheless, the war wasn't a week old before Jones placed all 61 of them at the disposal of the nation. And they threw him out because 61 was not enough. Later when the official altitude-scale was reduced he offered them again, but on this occasion they threw him out because his teeth came from Welbeck street. And when subsequently the war office decided that false teeth were not necessarily a barrier to a military career-- were, in fact, a valuable asset in connection with bully-beef--they threw him out because he saw 19 spots on a card that only possessed seven. And then, when the authorities at last came to look upon pince-nez with a more benignant eye, they threw him out because while they had been busy rejecting him for paucity of inches, falsity of teeth, and debility of eyes, Jones had passed the age limit, and when he wanted to argue the point with the recruiting officer they threw him out once more for luck. Then he tried for the special constabulary, and the first night he was on duty he contracted pneumonia, bronchitis, influenza and laryngitis. And they threw him out of that because they wanted special constables, and not collectors of germs. When he got better--and his convalescence was a long business notwithstanding that his sentences ran concurrently--he applied to join the A. A. C. and would have got in if the medical officer had not wrung him up on the stethoscope in order to hear his wheels go around. As it was, the M. O. informed Jones that he couldn't pass him into the A. A. C., but if he was really anxious to "serve," he might try and get taken on at an A. B. C., and it finally took a retired rear-admiral, a chief petty officer, a sergeant of marines and an elder brother of Trinity house to throw him out on that occasion. Disappointed but undaunted, Jones next attempted to qualify as a stretcher-bearer in the home service branch of the Red Cross. There, at any rate, they didn't seem so particular whether his lungs squeaked or not. But even they threw him out when they found that Jones's end of the stretcher was always six inches nearer to the ground than the opposite end. In desperation he tried to join his local defense corps, but they wouldn't have him there because they said he completely spoiled the look of their parade. And when Jones expostulated, and urged that the question of appearance was a matter of individual taste, and that for his part he would be ashamed to be found dead wearing a face like that of the commander of X company, they fell upon him with eager hands and drill-toughened feet and threw him out yet once again. Then, having done his best, Jones went back to his business. A few days ago I met him and he related the foregoing experiences to me. "But I've found a way to help," he concluded, "and it's a help which they can't refuse however overaged, undersized, weak-eyed and false-toothed I may be." "Taking a course of elementary surgery at one of the hospitals?" I asked. "No." "Making recruiting speeches?" "No." "Putting in overtime and Sundays at the arsenal?" "No." "What them?" "Something I've never done before," said Jones, a little shamefacedly. "I, I'm I'm returning my income tax form to the assessors with the correct amount of my income filled in." __________ HOLLAND A MAROONED NATION __________ [From the Century Magazine.] Of all the neutral nations in the present struggle, none is so hard placed as Holland. A forlorn islet of peace in a roaring flood of war, her position is indeed deplorable. Environed by contending armies and embattled fleets, her merchantmen pick their homeward way through minefields and submarines to bring her the food that will keep from starvation her dense population and the hundreds of thousands of Belgian refugees now destitute objects of her bounty. The mobilization of her entire army ever since the outbreak of the European war has added another heavy burden to her already overstrained resources. Holland is to-day living almost exclusively upon her savings. These are indeed considerable, but Holland's needs are great. and her main[scan cuts off top of page] las ideas, en ignea llamarada conempiamos arder, y es, ante ellas, toda la creacion polvo y ceniza. Los astros son materia inanimada y las humanas frentes son estrellas! Who says that men, as we look down to see From the deep ocean of the azure sky, Seem but like motes before the wind that fly, Or worms that creep and die, of low degree? Not so! Their brains, that throb with courage free - These are a marvel that naught else comes night - Forges where thoughts upon the anvil lie, Brighter by far than we can ever be. Beneath that little arch of fragile clay We see ideas with flaming splendor gleam. Defying time and space and mortal bars. Compared with these, to us who watch alway, Ashes and dust doth all creation seem, Stars are dead matter; human brows are stars! The poet esteemed above all others in Mexico is Manuel Gutierrez Najera (born 1859, died 1895). One of his finest poems is "Dead Wives":- In the deep darkness underneath the ground That never has been reached by mortal sight, There silent currents of black water glide In an unending course amid the night. Some of them, by the shining steel surprised That pierces through the rocks to their dark home. Limpid and boiling to the light gush forth In a vast plume of white and silvery am. The others in deep darkness evermore Glide silently upon their winding way. Doomed to a course unending under ground, Failing to find an outlet to the day. The noble rivers to the ocean flow Past field and forest, meadow-bank and lawn, Reflecting in the silvery, changeful glass The stars of heaven, the pale tints of dawn. Veils of fair, fragrant blossoms make them glad, Nymphs bathe in their clear current with delight; They fertilize the rich and fruitful vales; Their waves are singing water, free and bright. In the white marble fountain, lo! the stream Is mischievous and playful, sporting there Like a young girl who, in a palace hall Scatters the pearls that form her necklace fair. Now like a shining arrow it shoots up. Now like a fan it opens in its flow; It splashes glittering diamonds on the leaves, Or sinks to slumber, singing soft and low. The waves that in the mighty ocean swell Assail the craggy rocks, upsurging high; Their raging fury shakes the solid earth, And rises up in the tumult to the sky. Those waves are life and power invincible; The water is a queen with wrath on fire. And against heaven like a rival fights, And wages war with gods nd monsters dire. How different is the sable current, doomed To endless prison, far from daylight's sheen, Dwelling so very deep below the ground That there not even death itself is seen! That stream has never known what light may be; It neither sings nor wails, that sunless wave. The subterranean stream is dumb, unknown; It wanders on its way, a mute, blind slave. Like such a stream, to all the world unknown - Like such a stream, whose prisoned waters roll Surrounded by thick darkness - such are you, O dark and silent currents of my soul! Whoe'er hath known the course your waters take? No kindly friend goes down where shows sleep To look upon you in the dark - and yet Your captive waves reach deep, oh, very deep! Should you be given an outlet to the day. You would gush upward from your sunless home Like living water in a boiling jet That rises in a column white with foam. But no - you ne'er will feel the gaze of light: still through the night your rayless waves must roll. Go on, forever gliding in the dark. O deep and silent currents of my soul! A great favorite with many Mexicans is Salvador Diaz Miron (born 1853). He has written much ardent love poetry. To a lady who rejects his love, but who lays her hand on its head seeking to comfort him, the poet says:- 'Tis vain, O woman! Thou dost not console me. We are a world apart, in naught the same. If thou art snow, then why dost thou not freeze me? Why do I melt thee not, if I am flame? Thing hand, so spiritual and transparent. When it caresses my submissive head. Is but the snow-cap crowning the volcano, Whose burning lava-depths beneath it spread! Another poet well esteemed in Mexico is Agustin F. Cuenca (born 1850, died 1884). His sonnet, "Prismatic Lights," is dedicated to his life, Laura Mendez de Cuenca, herself a poet:- Below the west, that blows all ruddily, Day's car of blazing gold hath sunk from sight. Soon, Venus, thy rosette of silver bright Upon Night's dusky mantle clasped will be Rich jewel of the skies! Alike in thee The man who mourns o'er unjust Fortune's slight. And he on whom her choicest favors light. Their sorrow and their joy reflected see. Pure innocence beholds thee radiant clear; Beauty perceives thee gloriously fair; Love sees thee tender; and the heart that sighs Beholds thee mournful. Every creature here Possesses, in delight or in despair. A crystal glass through which to read the skies. Of all the Mexican poets whose work has come under my observation, Luis G. Urbina (born 1858) is perhaps the most original and vivid in his ideas. His poems are almost all mournful. A good example is "Birds":- Childhood, how deep the memories you stir! My heart was then like eaves with white birds filled, When in my sky the sun was newly born, And with its tender beams the shadows thrilled. Youth brought me strength and wild exuberance. Firmness, and life, and fire, and joy, and might; But the white birds of innocence, ah me! [scan cuts off the first lines] O hands of the ivory's hue! Hands filled with charity's grace, Hands which to hunger's dark night Carry forth comfort and food, Bread of hope's joy, of truth's light! Noble, mysterious hands Of kindness unending, sincere! Brothers are we, one and all, Hands full of charity dear! O pale, perished hands of the dead For love or as martyrs who died! Leaves of one lily are ye. Hands that were clasped or spread wide; Hands full of questions, desires, Aspirations and yearnings unsaid - Hands to the heavens outstretched - O pale, perished hands of the head! Hands with the sword in their grasp, That by warfare a scepter have won, And fill the whole world with the flood Of rivers of blood that o'errun! Hands of the working folk, armed When quarrels or battles have birth - Hands with the sword in their grasp, Red hands of the great ones of earth! Hands that are bleeding and hard. That plow up the stern, arid soil. And scarce feel the flight of the hours, So heavy and cruel the toil: Those in the workshop that sweat, That set up the type in all lands, Those that meet death in the mines - Hard, rough and blood-spotted hands! Hands that are wonted to toil, Strong hands of the brave and the free! When on the hights, in the depths, Vibrates o'er land and o'er sea. Stirring the world from the roots, The anger of justice on fire - Hands that are wonted to toil. You shall that day hold the lyre! Mexican poetry is often full of color; witness the sonnet, "Twilight," by Joaquin Arcadio Pagaza, bishop of Vera Cruz (born 1839):- Slowly the sun descends at fall of night And rests on clouds of amber, rose and red: The mist upon the distant mountains shed Turns to a rain of gold and silver light. The evening star shines tremulous and bright Through wreaths of vapor, and the clouds o'erhead Are mirrored in the lake. while soft they spread And break and the blue of heaven's azure hight. Bright grows the whole horizon in the west Like a devouring fire! a golden hue Spreads o'er the sky, the trees, the plains that shine. The bird is singing near its hidden nest Its latest song amid the falling dew. Enraptured by the sunset's charm divine. Mexico's wonderful sunsets have inspired innumerable poems. Efren Rebolledo writes:- The weary sun slowly Descends to his rest Behind the soft mist Of gold foam in the West. From the heavens hang veils Of bewildering shades - Deep violet velvets And golden brocades. O beautiful faces, Necks slender and fair, Wistful eyes, rosy lips, Knots of cloudy, soft hair! Of gifts and bright hopes How immense is the sum, Where hearts yet are desolate, Lonely and dumb! And Vincente Manuel Llorente says:- It is the hour of love. Now silently The day, departing, throws its last sad sheen Upon the lemon grove, umbrageous, green - A kiss divine from yonder sunset sky. The fields with perfume breathe with music sigh, And woo the mind to reverie serene: The meadow lark's sweet lute now quivers keen; The heart is lulled by evening's harmony. The orange groves their odors sweet and strong Yield lavishly: the dewy blossoms white Unfold their petals to the subtle breeze. Meanwhile the sun, inspirer of my song, A monarch vanquished by the coming night, His greatness hides behind the western seas. A delicate fancy is shown in "My Fountain," by Luis G. Ortiz (born 1835, died 1894):- Hard by the cottage, innocent and free, Where rocked my cradle, - near that hidden cot, Its ripples overflowing from their grot, Bursts forth my fountain, lost in greenery. When the new moon was mirrored radiantly On its clear wave in that sequestered spot, How oft I cried, "Oh, happy is their lot Who cross the vast expanses of the seas!" It was God's will that I the deck should tread. And find my wish to full fruition grown Amid the billows of the tossing sea: God in the deep I saw, and bowed my head; And now, upon the sea, I dream alone, My humble, sweet and murmurous fount, of thee! Justo Sierra (born 1848) was for many years minister of education and of the fine arts under President Diaz. He has written some striking historical poems, including a noble ode to Columbus. A good example of his lighter style is "A Song of the Shore":- Let the sweet maiden to the shore come down; I will seek beauteous pearls for her delight. Let her permit the sleeping water there With crystal to surround her foot so white. Oh, let her come, the pure and smiling maid! Her charms the ocean clear will mirror well; And while the darksome night is falling fast, Stories of love he in her ear will tell. When in the Orient the day shall dawn, She will behold white, filmy clouds on high, Which like the swans that float within the bay, Will glide serenely, rippling the blue sky, We from the palms will hang the hammock soft, And in its swaying, while the light winds stir, The sad hours will with swiftness pass away, And sweet and golden dreams will come to her. And if the moon should spread upon the waves Her veil of silver sendal silently, The maid will hear my boat-songs rising clear, Sung to the oar that cleaves the sleeping sea. While the night fastens to her garments dark Brooches of pearls and rubies gleaming bright, [scan cuts off the first lines in the column] In times of tempest wild and stormy gale; He is the sailor who with vigor rows! To you the sea gives fish already dead, That, prisoned in the mesh within the wave Your hand can without effort grasp and keep It grants the sailor, in its bosom deep, Pearls and red corals, glory and a grave. The poets quoted in this article are only a few of Mexico's many singers. When the knowledge of Spanish becomes more general in the United States we shall find that the republics to the south of us afford not only great opportunities for trade, but a wide and almost unexplored field of literary interest. ---------- ---------- JONES, SUPERPATRIOT ---------- How at Last He Found an Extraordinary Way to Prove It [From Punch.] Jones (I'm very sorry, but his name is really Jones) is a true patriot, every inch of him, but unfortunately he hasn't many inches. Nevertheless, the war wasn't a week old before Jones placed all 61 of them at the disposal of the nation. And they threw him out because 61 was not enough. Later when the official altitude-scale was reduced he offered them again, but on this occasion they threw him out because his teeth came from Welbeck street. And when subsequently the war office decided that false teeth were not necessarily a barrier to a military career - were, in fact, a valuable asset in connection with bully-beef - they threw him out because he saw 19 spots on a card that only possessed seven. And then, when the authorities at last came to look upon pince-nez with a more benignant eye, they threw him out because while they had been busy rejecting him for paucity of inches, falsity of teeth, and debility of eyes, Jones had passed the age limit, and when he wanted to argue the point with the recruiting officer they threw him out once more for luck. Then he tried for the special constabulary, and the first night he was on duty he contracted pneumonia, bronchitis, influenza and laryngitis. And they threw him out of that because they wanted special constables, and not collectors of germs. When he got better - and his convalescence was a long business notwithstanding that his sentences ran concurrently - he applied to join the A. A. C. and would have got in if the medical officer had not wrung him up on the stethoscope in order to hear his wheels go around. As it was, the M. O. informed Jones that he couldn't pass him into the A. A. C., but if he was really anxious to "serve," he might try and get taken on at an A. B. C., and it finally took a retired rear-admiral, a chief petty officer, a sergeant of marines and an elder brother of Trinity house to throw him out on that occasion. Disappointed but undaunted, Jones next attempted to qualify as a stretcher-bearer in the home service branch of the Red Cross. There, at any rate, they didn't seem so particular whether his lungs squeaked or not. But even they threw him out when they found that Jones's end of the stretcher was always six inches nearer to the ground than the opposite end. In desperation he tried to join his local defense corps, but they wouldn't have him there because, they said, he completely spoiled the look of their parade. And when Jones expostulated, and urged that the question of appearance was a matter of individual taste, and that for his part he would be ashamed to be found dead wearing a face like that of the commander of X company, they fell upon him with eager hands and drill-toughened feet and threw him out once again. Then, having done his best, Jones went back to his business. A few days ago I met him and he related the foregoing experiences to me. "But I've found a way to help," he concluded, "and it's a help which they can't refuse however overaged, undersized, weak-eyed and false-toothed I may be." "Taking a course of elementary surgery at one of the hospitals?" I asked. "No." "Making recruiting speeches?" "No." "Putting in overtime and Sundays at the arsenal?" "No." "What them?" "Something I've never done before." said Jones, a little shamefacedly. "I- I- I'm returning my income tax form to the assessors with the correct amount of my income filled in." ---------- ---------- HOLLAND A MAROONED NATION ---------- [From the Century Magazine.] Of all the neutral nations in the present struggle, none is so hard placed as Holland. A forlorn islet of peace in a roaring flood of war, her position is indeed deplorable. Environed by contending armies and embattled fleets, her merchantmen pick their homeward way through minefields and submarines to bring her the food that will keep from starvation her dense population and the hundreds of thousands of Belgian refugees now destitute objects of her bounty. The mobilization of her entire army ever since the outbreak of the European war has added another heavy burden to her already over-strained resources. Holland is to-day living almost exclusively upon her savings. These are indeed considerable, but Holland's needs are great, and her main sources of health, lying not at home, but abroad, are failing one by one. The wealth of Holland is proverbial, yet few persons realize that by nature she is one of the poorest countries in the world. Virtually without coal, iron, timber, or stone, unable to feed her dense population by her own agriculture, Holland lives primarily upon her rich colonies, her merchant marine and the vast transit trade between the German provinces along the Rhine and the outer world. This last is of capital importance. What the Nile is agriculturally to Egypt, that the Rhine is commercially to Holland. The pulsing throb of Germany's main trade-artery is the index of Dutch economic life.14 THE SPRINGFIELD THE VOICES ---------- I follow far the voices That lure me far away, A whisper in the moonlight, A summons in the day. The bugles of the far quest Are pealing in the dawn. I feel the urge within me And must be up and on. There's something over yonder Beyond the ancient hills For which my senses wonder And all my spirit thrills. The lonely sunsets call me; The splendid dawns command; The mountains, dim and hoary, Cry out across the land. O voices ever calling! O bugles of desire! The grandeur of your summons Goes through me like a fire! My heart is in the verging Dim distances afar, Where sun and moon are calling And ev'ry brother star. HERBERT S. GORMAN. Springfield, July 26, 1915. ---------- ---------- HAPPENINGS OF A HOT DAY ---------- A FLUTTERING IN A DOVECOTE ---------- THAT IS TO SAY, A SUMMER PIAZZA ---------- The Meritorious Mischief of an Amateur Social Reformer ---------- [Written by MARY L. LYLES for The Sunday Republican.] It was a very hot day. Even the occasional breeze that blew across the broad piazzas of "The Homestead" savored rather of the furnace than of the cool wooded hills from which it feigned to come. Women of various ages, all with a comfortable air of vacation about them, dressed in the coolest of lawns or of linens, overcome by the unexpected heat waves, drooped on convenient settees or rocked languidly to and fro, discussing the night's discomforts, while they waited for the great event of the day, the arrival of the rural free delivery messenger. Disconnected bits of conversation filled the air, as they, with urban voices, murmurously complained of the heat and the sleeplessness it had entailed. Life had gone so easily with them that the sudden rise in temperature loomed up as a real injustice. "Mrs Parsons said it was never hot here." "Yes, so she wrote me, or-" "Positively not a wink of sleep till 4 o'clock, my dear." "I ought to finish that lace, it's for Isabel's-" "Oh, there comes the mail," cried joyously the youngest of the group, the bride of the season. The others brightened slightly, and all turned expectant eyes toward the road. It was not the carrier, however, who turned into the long avenue that led up to the house, but a well-set-up yong man in walking suit with a knapsack borne jauntily on his broad shoulders. The women from their vantage points of settee or rocker watched him come briskly up the walk and gain admission at the broad front door. An air of general disappointment and disapproval added itself to the languor induced by the heat. "I hope Mrs Parsons is not going to take him in. One man is so in the way," confided one to her neighbor. "But Mrs Parson has that big room she reserved for Mrs Long and her children," urged the other in explanation. The appearance of the carrier in a few minutes later roused anew the general interest. He mopped his brow vigorously as he opened his pouch in the center of the group. "It's fearful hot in the Holler. I guess you'll get your letters and papers full of scare heat stories. My brother's just back from York, and he says he never saw the beat of it." While the carrier made his way to the friendly back door, where a cooling drink awaited him, letters and papers were distributed and opened. Soon bits of information were given to any listening. "It is 100 degrees at Chicago." "Mr Andrews writes-" The speaker broke off as Mrs Parsons appeared at the door, followed closely by the stranger. "Ladies," she said half apologetically, "this is Mr Ford. He's going to stay a day or two. I let you have Mrs Long's room." Then she mentioned two or three names- "Mrs Rigney, Mrs Wyant, Miss Van Zant," - and withdrew. Those whose names were mentioned bowed affably, and the others gave that little, indistinct sound that marks the acknowledgment of a general introduction. Mr Ford, after a commonplace remark or two, perched himself comfortably on the piazza railing and looked off at the cool green of the hills. The women returned to their letters. "Mr Andrews writes," resumed the interrupted speaker, "that the heat in the city is terrific," - the city being of course New York. In his office it was positively 105. One of his stenographers [scan cut off the last lines] others, who bestowed upon Mr Ford an icy stare as they passed him. "Mr Ford," said one matron stiffly, "you have been making some very sweeping statements. I think as far as the men I know are concerned you are entirely mistaken. My husband finds no pleasure in such amendment as you mention." "Oh, perhaps not," responded the disturber of the peace, cheerfully. "There are all sorts of tastes, but a shut-up house or a hotel bedroom doesn't furnish a man with all the comforts of home, you know. I like Louise to have a little fun. I just tell her to go ahead. I am having the rest and the country cheer. That's a nice little shady road over yonder; I think I'll explore it." He swung himself over the railing and walked away, whistling gayly "The girl I left behind me." The piazza occupants watched him go with blended expressions of rage and relief. "Did you ever hear of anything so mean?" said one. "The idea of his leaving his wife int hat hot city while he goes off to enjoy himself!" "Isn't that just what we do, and all the women like us all over the country do? We've been brought up that way. But I see it now, and I'm going to make Jack come up here, or I'll go home and open the house. If he's going to roof gardens, I am going, too," and Mrs Deems set her pretty mouth firmly as she finished. A few minutes later Mrs Parsons, red and flustered, appeared. "Mrs Rigney," she turned appealingly to the still placid lady, "what is the matter? Mrs Roberts is crying and packing her trunk, and Mrs French wants to send off two telegrams right away, and Mrs Thornton has banged her door tight shut!" Mrs Rigney looked up amicably. "It's just a fit of conscience brought n by your new boarder. I'll go and see Mrs Roberts, and don't hurry the telegrams, Mrs Parsons. I think Mrs French may wish to change them later." A moment afterward her placid voice was heard answering the sobbing Mrs Roberts. "No," it said soothingly, "I don't think you're a wicked wretch, and I certainly can't let you go home to-day. Just write to Mr Roberts that you're lonely, and beg him to come up for Sunday. Wash your eyes and put away your things. You didn't need this episode, but-" she lowered her voice and looked at the door banged tight - "there are those that did." Later, seated in her favorite chair, Mrs Rigney saw the disturbing element returning. As he dropped into a low chair near her rocker he turned toward her a face of mingled appeal and defiance. "Mr Ford," she said, "I fear you are a mischief-making young man." "Madam, why not call me a social reformer? Honestly," he went on, laying a boyish hand upon her book, "I just couldn't help it. I know what a city summer means, and they looked so smug and cool and so complacent-" "That you invented Louise and the letter on the instant," said Mrs Rigney. "I did," he confessed; "but how did you guess?" "I know a college man when I see him, and my old friend, Kate Ford, wrote me that her son was tramping through this region." "My mother's friend!" he cried dramatically: "then, you'll be mine. What shall I do?" She laughed. "Pay you board and go. I'll keep your secret. Cheer up! You have done less harm and more good than some other reformers I have met. My love to your mother!" When the next Saturday came round, it was a matter of comment at the little village in "the Holler" that so many men descended from the evening train and wished conveyance to "The Homestead." "John," said the happy little bride, as she welcomed her husband. "I don't care if- if you did go to a roof garden! I'd go anywhere if you left me alone down there!" And John, mystified, but wise beyond his hears of matrimony, kissed her and asked no questions. Afterward she told him this story. ---------- ---------- STRANGER THAN FICTION ---------- The True Story of an Old Maryland Churchyard [Written by MYENNA THRUSTON for the Sunday Republican.] Maryland, being one of the most important of the 13 colonial states, is full [scan cuts of last lines of this column] A MISSING LINK FOUND ---------- AMHERST MAN DIGS IT UP ---------- ADDS TO PRICELESS COLLECTION ---------- College Now Has Four of Five Known Specimens of Horse Family - Shares Honors With American Museum of Natural History ---------- The casual wanderer through the halls of the new Biological building at Amherst is unaware that Amherst college is "up" on horses. In fact there is very little about any horse's distant past that is not contained in the Amherst museum. But up to a few years ago there were several gaps in the equine family tree as constructed in the Biological building, and the experts at Amherst were envious of certain collections of old bones in the possession [Photo: horse skeleton Photo Caption: SKELETON OF HORSE 3,000,000 YEARS OLD ---------- The Little Eohippus Stands 11 Inches High and is a Very Rare Specimen. Only One Other is Known] of the American Museum of natural history in New York. That was in 1908. Even at that time Amherst was far ahead of any other college in the world as regards fossil collections of horses and other animals. The last seven years have seen a big step ahead, particularly in the recent discovery of one of the two missing specimens of the known horse family. That valuable addition to the Amherst collection was made a week or so ago, and now there is only one missing branch in the family tree. If anyone will take the trouble to visit the Amherst collection and ask questions, the information will be forthcoming that there are five known members of the horse family, all dignified with names so long or unusual that there is no danger of misapplication. They range in size from the little eohippus, standing 11 inches high, and thought to be about 3,000,000 years old, to the modern dray horse 6 1/2 feet tall. The former is the earliest known member of the horse family, and there are only two of them in the world, one at Amherst and the other in the New York museum. No 2 of the family is the mesohippus, about the size of a sheep, the bones of which are the possession of Amherst college and are about to be mounted. No 3 is the only specimen now missing from the Amherst collection. It is the parahippus, and the only specimen is in the possession of the New York museum. Prof F. B. Lommis of Amherst, through whose untiring efforts the Amherst collection has been brought to its present high perfection, is going in search of the parahippus just as soon as an expedition can be arranged. No 4 is the extinct American horse, equus scotti, which has just been added to the collection, and No 5 is the modern giant draft horse, beside which is mounted at Amherst a full-grown adult Shetland pony about three feet high. The latest acquisition, the skeleton of the extinct American horse, equus scotti, was found at Rock Creek in the lower pleistocee strata of Texas by Edward L. Troxell, Yale 1910, Columbia 1913, and an assistant instructor in biology at Amherst in 1913-1914. Mr Troxell was at the time conducting a private investigation. How Fossils Are Found The search for fossils is not an easy one. The scientist starts out early in the morning with his pick in his hand and a bag over his back, containing hammer, chisel, awls, brushes, cloth for bandages, flour, shellac and a canteen of water. To find specimens one must climb around on the face of one of the many wind-swept and sandy hills of the Bad Land countries, until he comes upon some fragment of a bone, which has been weathered out and perhaps rolled down the hill. This is traced upward until the bone from which it and perhaps other fragments were detected is found. This technicality is called [scan cuts off last lines in the column]The splendid dawns command; The mountains, dim and hoary, Cry out across the land, O voices ever calling! O bugles of desire! The grandeur of your summons Goes through me like a fire! My heart is in the verging Dim distances afar, Where sun and moon are calling And ev'ry brother star. HERBERT S. GORMAN. Springfield, July 26, 1915. ------- HAPPENINGS OF A HOT DAY ------- A FLUTTERING IN A DOVECOTE ------- THAT IS TO SAY, A SUMMER PIAZZA ------- The Meritorious Mischief of an Amateur Social Reformer ------- [Written by MARY L. LYLES for the Sunday Republican.] It was a very hot day. Even the occasional breeze that blew across the broad piazzas of "The Homestead" savored rather pf the furnace than of the cool wooded hills from which it feigned to come. Women of various ages, all with a comfortable air of vacation about them, dressed in the coolest of lawns or of waves, drooped on convenient settees or rocked languidly to and fro, discussing the night's discomforts, while they waited for the great event of the day, the arrival of the rural free delivery messenger. Disconnected bits of conversation filled the air, as they, with urban voices, murmurously complained of the heat and the sleeplessness it had entailed. Life had gone so easily with them that the sudden rise in temperature loomed up as a real injustice. "Mrs. Parsons said it was never hot here." "Yes, so she wrote me, or--" "Positively not a wink of sleep till 4 o'clock, my dear." "I ought to finish that lace, it's for Isabel's--" "Oh, there comes the mail," cried joyously the youngest of the group, the bride of the season. The others brightened slightly, and all turned expectant eyes toward the road. It was not the carrier, however, who turned into the long avenue that led up to the house, but a well-set-up yong man in walking suit with a knapsack borne jauntily on his broad shoulders. The women from their vantage points of settee or rocker watched him come briskly up the walk and gain admission at the broad front door. An air of general disappointment and disapproval added itself to the languor induced by the heat "I hope Mrs Parsons is not going to take him in. One man is so in the way," confided one to her neighbor. "But Mrs Parsons has that big room she reserved for Mrs Long and her children," urged the other in explanation. The appearance of the carrier a few minutes later roused anew the general interest. he mopped his brow vigorously as he opened his pouch in the center of the group. "It's fearful hot in the Holler. I guess you'll get your letters and papers full of scare heat stories. My brother's just back from York, and he says he never saw the beat of it." While the carrier made his way to the friendly back door, where a cooling drink awaited him, letters and papers were distributed and opened. Soon bits of information were given to any listening. "It was 100 degrees at Chicago." "Mr Andrews writes--" The speaker broke off as Mrs Parsons appeared at the door, followed closely by the stranger. "Ladies," she said half apologetically, "this is Mr Ford. He's going to stay a day or two. I let him have Mrs Long's room." Then she mentioned two or three names-- "Mrs Rigney, Mrs Wyant, Miss Van Zant," -- and withdrew. Those whose names were mentioned bowed affably, and the others gave that little, indistinct sound that marks the acknowledgement of a general introduction. Mr Ford, after a commonplace remark or two, perched himself comfortably on the piazza railing and looked off at the cool green of the hills. The women returned to their letters. "Mr Andrews writes," resumed in interrupted speaker, "that the heat in the city is terrific," --the city being of course New York. "In his office it was positively 105. One of his stenographers fainted and had to be sent home in a cab." "Oh, how unpleasant! Mr Osborne's in St Louis. It's worse than New York. It is too bad he had to travel when it is so hot." "My brother James," contributed Miss Van Zant, "has been investigating tenement conditions. He says they're appalling." "Mr Roberts--John," stammered the little bride, "says he's so glad I'm here in the cool country. Of course he doesn't know how hot it is here to-day. He says he couldn't stand it to see me suffer with the heat." "That's just what my wife says." It was the young man who spoke, looking pleasantly around at the rockers and settees as he did so. In the horrified silence that followed this statement he drew an envelope from his pocket, took out a folded paper and read: "Heat frightful to-day. Am almost exhausted. Am so glad you are tramping the hills." "Your wife," at length gasped one of the startled bearers, while everyone except Mrs Rigney stared reproachfully at him. That lady ready placidly on, with just a bit of a smile about her lips. "Do you mean to say," the expostulatory voice went on, "that you left your wife?" The last word with an intonation indescribable. "Oh, yes," he interrupted nonchalantly, "you see it's this way. We're brokers, and somebody's got to be at the office, and Louise thought I'd better get a good rest. I'd be stronger for the fall rush." "But your wife," gasped the little bride, "can you leave here there all alone?" "Oh, that's not so bad," he rejoined, referring again to the letter in his hand: " 'Fred took me to the roof garden show last night.' Fred is a sort of cousin," he explained. Turning to the letter again: " 'It was really very pleasant--good breeze --cooling drinks--music not so bad. I counted over 20 summer widowers.' That's what we called the men whose wives are away." in a tone of friendly explanation. " 'And," (from the letter [?] SKELETON OF HORSE 3,000,000 YEARS OLD The Little Eohippus Stands 11 Inches High and is a Very Rare Specimen. Only One Other is Known she turned appealingly to the still placid lady "what is the matter? Mrs Roberts is crying and packing her trunk, and Mrs French wants to send off two telegram right away and Mrs Thornton has banged her door tight shout!" Mrs Rigney looked up amicably. "It's iust a fit of conscience brought on by your new boarder. I'll go and see Mrs Roberts, and don't hurry the telegrams, Mrs Parsons. I think Mrs French may wish to change them later." A moment afterward her placid voice was heard answering the sobbing Mrs Roberts "No," it said soothingly, "I don't think you're wicked wretch, and I certainly can't let you go home to-day. Just write to Mr Roberts that you're lonely, and bee him to come up for Sunday. Wash your eyes and put away your things. You didn't need this episode, but--" she lowered her voice and looked at the door banged tight-- "there are those that did." Later, seated in her favorite chair, Mrs Rigney saw the disturbing element returning. As he dropped into a low chair near her rocker he turned toward her a face of mingled appeal and defiance. "Mr Ford," she said, "I fear you are a mischief-making young man." "Madam, why not call me social reformer? Honestly, he went on, laying a boyish hand on her book, "I just couldn't help it. I know what a city summer means, and they looked so smug and cool and so complacent--" "That you invented Louise and the letter on the instant," said Mrs Rigney. "I did," he confessed; "but how did you guess?" "I know a college man when I see him, and my old friend, Kate Ford, wrote me that her son was tramping through this region." "My mother's friend" he cried dramatically: "then, you'll be mine. What shall I do?" She laughed. "Pay you board and go I'll keep your secret. Cheer up! Yon have done less harm and more good then some other reformers are met. My love to your mother!" When the next Saturday came round, it was a matter of comment at the little village in "the Holler" that so many men descended from the evening train and wished conveyance to "The Homestead." "John," said the happy little brides, as she welcomed her husband. "I don't care if--if you did go to a roof garden! I'd go anywhere if you left me alone down there!" And John, mystified, but wise beyond his years of matrimony, kissed her and asked no questions. Afterward she told him this story. ------- STRANGER THAN FICTION ------- The True Story of an Old Maryland Churchyard [Written by MUA THRUSTON for The Sunday Republican.] Maryland, being one of the most important of the 13 colonial states, is full of romances and traditions, handed down from generation to generation in the colonial families--a people who have held honor and truth above riches. In the old churchyard of Whitemarsh Parish, Talbot county, is the tombstone of Rev Daniel Maznadier, a Huguenot, driven from France in 1685. He was the rector of St Peter's church, Whitemarsh, from 1717 to 1745. A remarkable and authentic story of his wife make this old parish churchyard of particular interest. His wife died suddenly, and, as was the custom in those days, was buried the day of her death. The household was thrown into confusion by this sudden event, and when the lady was dressed for burial it was overlooked that handsome ring was still on her finger. During the ceremony she lay in the church, in an inclosed coffin, that the parishioners might look for the last time on their friend suddenly taken from them. Two strangers entered from curiosity, as they were passing the church, and the glances of these men fell on the beautiful ring Mrs Maznadier wore. That night they went to this old churchyard and opened the grave, lifted the coffin to the sod above and split it open. They then tried to take the ring from the lady's finger, but all their efforts were in vain; it would not more. Wishing to accomplish their grewsome design as speedily as possible, one of them opened his knife and attempted to strike off the finger at the joint with blow. But loud shriek was given by the supposedly dead women, and the robbers took to their heels, in deadly terror. The rector had fallen asleep after his day of sorrow, but was awakened about midnight by hearing a moaning sound at his front door. Hastily dressing himself, he took his lantern, thinking some of his flock or a passing stranger was in trouble of some kind and needed his ministrations. On opening his door he thought surely be must still be dreaming, for there lay his wife across the doorstep half-fainting, and the blood dripping from session of the American museum of natural history in New York. That was in 1908. Even at that time Amherst was far ahead of any other college in the world as regards fossil collections of horses and other animals. The last seven years have seen a big step ahead, particularly in the recent discovery of one of the two missing specimens of the known horse family. That valuable addition to the Amherst collection was made a week or so ago, and now there is only one missing branch in the family tree. If anyone will take the trouble to visit the Amherst collection and ask questions. the information will be forthcoming that there are five known members of the horse family, all dignified with names so long or unusual that there is no danger of misapplication. They range in size from the little eohippus, standing 11 inches high, and thought to be about 3,000,000 years old, to the modern dray horse 6½ feet tall. The former is the earliest known member of the horse family, and there are only two of them in the world, one at Amherst and the other in the New York Museum. No 2 of the family is the mesohippus, about the size of a sheep. the bones of which are in the possession of Amherst college and are about to be mounted. No 3 is the only specimen now missing from the Amherst collection. It is the parahippus, and the only specimen is in the possession of the New York museum. Prof F. B. Loomis of Amherst, through, whose untiring efforts the Amherst collection has been brought to its present high perfection, is going in search of the parahippus just as soon as an expedition can be arranged. No 4 is the extinct American horse, equus scotti, which has just been added to the collection, and No 5 in the modern giant draft horse, beside which is mounted at Amherst a full-grown adult Shetland pony about three feet high. The latest acquisition, the skeleton of the extinct American horse, equus scotti, was found at Rock Creek in the lower pleistocene strata of Texas by Edward L. Troxell, Yale 1910, Columbia, 1913, and an assistant instructor in biology at Amherst in 1913-1914. Mr Troxell was at the time conducting a private investigation. How Fossils Are Found The search for fossils is not an easy one. The scientist starts out early in the morning with his pick in his hand and a bag over his back, containing hammer. chisel, awls, brushes, cloth for bandages, flour, shellac and a canteen of water. To find specimens one mint climb around on the face of one of the many wind-swept and sandy hills of the Bad Land countries, until he comes upon some fragment of a bone, which has been weathered out and perhaps rolled down the hill. This is traced upward until the home from which it and perhaps other fragments were detected is found. This technically is called a "lead," and is carefully uncovered to ascertain how much is present and whether there is enough to determine what sort of an animal it is part of. In the case of the equus scotti, Mr Troxell found that the "prospect" was unusually good. At this point the patient, serious work begins. In these beds the bones are without any infiltrated filling, so that though perfect in form, they are soft and fragile. To remedy this defect a coat of shellac is applied and allowed to soak in, then second and third, and often more, are put on, until the sandstone, or matrix, and bone cease to take up shellac. As soon the bone has hardened, strips of cloth are dipped in flour paste and adjusted to make firm bandage. When dried in this stage the whole is firm enough to work around, and the adjacent rock is gently removed, leaving the specimen on somewhat of a pedestal. The preparation and the work of quarrying take three or more days of careful, patient work. Then finally the slab containing the bones and hardened with shellac is wrapped in straw and shipped to the college. When the specimen reaches Amherst, John Harlow begins the second stage of the work. To take the bones from the slab and prepare them for mounting require all the patience and skill of a master mechanic. Very carefully, often with the finest of dental tools, it is necessary to dig away the sandstone covering the bones. The work becomes more delicate as the fragile bones appear. As soon as exposed to the air the pulverized mass is given a coat of shellac, and this process is continued until it becomes firm and durable. After the preparator has the material in working shape he must add the missing parts, restoring them with plaster. This requires a careful study of other prehistoric bones. The skeleton in then mounted, a work which is comparatively easy as regards the fixing process. As soon as the equus scotti is dry and The Meritorious Mischief of an Amateur Social Reformer [Written by MARY L. LYLES for The Sunday Republican.] It was a very hot day. Even the occasional breeze that blew across the broad piazzas of "The Homestead" savored rather of the furnace than of the cool wooded hills from which it feigned to come. Women of various ages, all with a comfortable air of vacation about them, dressed in the coolest of lawns or of linens, overcome by the unexpected heat waves, drooped on convenient settees or rocked languidly to and fro, discussing the night's discomforts, while they waited for the great event of the day, the arrival of the rural free delivery messenger. Disconnected bits of conversation filled the air, as they, with urban voices, murmurously complained of the heat and the sleeplessness it had entailed. Life had gone so easily with them that the sudden rise in temperature loomed up as a real injustice. "Mrs Parsons said it was never hot here." "Yes, so she wrote me, or-" "Positively not a wink of sleep till 4 o'clock, my dear." "I ought to finish that lace, it's for Isabel's-" "Oh, there comes the mail," cried joyously the youngest of the group, the bride of the season. The others brightened slightly, and all turned expectant eyes toward the road. It was not the carrier, however, who turned into the long avenue that led up to the house, but a well-set-up yong man in walking suit with a knapsack borne jauntily on his broad shoulders. The women from their vantage points of settee or rocker watched him come briskly up the walk and gain admission at the broad front door. An air of general disappointment and disapproval added itself to the languor induced by the heat. "I hope Mrs Parsons is not going to take him in. One man is so in the way," confided one to her neighbor. "But Mrs Parsons has that big room she reserved for Mrs Long and her children," urged the other in explanation. The appearance of the carrier a few minutes later roused anew the general interest. He mopped his brow vigorously as he opened his pouch in the center of the group. "It's fearful hot in the Holler. I guess you'll get your letters and papers full of scare heat stories. My brother's just back from York, and he says he never saw the beat of it." While the carrier made his way to the friendly back door, where a cooling drink awaited him, letters and papers were distributed and opened. Soon bits of information were given to any listening. "It is 100 degrees at Chicago." "Mr Andrews writes-" The speaker broke off as Mrs Parsons appeared at the door, followed closely by the stranger. "Ladies," she said half apologetically, "this is Mr Ford. He's going to stay a day or two. I let him have Mrs Long's room." Then she mentioned two or three names- "Mrs Rigney, Mrs Wyant, Miss Van Zant,"- and withdrew. Those whose names were mentioned bowed affably, and the others gave that little, indistinct sound that marks the acknowledgment of a general introduction. Mr Ford, after a commonplace remark or two, perched himself comfortably on the piazza railing and looked off at the cool green of the hills. The women returned to their letters. "Mr Andrews writes," resumed the interrupted speaker, "that the heat in the city is terrific,"- the city being of course New York. "In his office it was positively 105. One of his stenographers fainted and had to be sent home in a cab." "Oh, how unpleasant! Mr Osborne's in St Louis. It's worse than New York. It is too bad he has to travel when it is so hot." "My brother James," contributed Miss Van Zant, "has been investigating tenement conditions. He says they're appalling." "Mr Roberts- John," stammered the little bride, "says he's so glad I'm here in the cool country. Of course he doesn't know how hot it is here to-day. He says he couldn't stand it to see me suffer with the heat." "That's just what my wife says." It was the young man who spoke, looking pleasantly around at the rockers and settees as he did so. In the horrified silence that followed this statement he drew an envelope from his pocket, took out a folded paper and read: "Heat frightful to-day. Am almost exhausted. Am so glad you are tramping the hills." "Your wife," at length gasped one of the startled hearers, while everyone except Mrs Rigney stared reproachfully at him. That lady read placidly on, with just a bit of a smile about her lips. "Do you mean to say," the expostulatory voice went on, "that you left your wife?" The last word with an intonation indescribable. "Oh, yes," he interrupted nonchalantly, "you see it's this way. We're brokers, and somebody's got to be at the office, and Louise thought I'd better get a good rest. I'd be stronger for the fall rush." "But your wife," gasped the little bride, "can you leave her there all alone?" "Oh, that's not so bed," he rejoined, referring again to the letter in his hand: "'Fred took me to the roof garden show last night.' Fred is a sort of cousin," he explained. Turning to the letter again: "'It was really very pleasant- good breeze -cooling drinks- music not so bad. I counted over 20 summer widowers.' That's what we call the men whose wives are away," in a tone of friendly explanation. "'And," (from the letter again), "'they weren't there alone either.'" He smiled genially and concluded, "So you see the folks we leave behind us are pretty jolly, despite the heat." "Do- do- do you mean?" the little bride began, but rushed past him with her question unfinished. She was followed by two she turned appealingly to the still placid lady, "what is the matter? Mrs Roberts is crying and packing her trunk, and Mrs French wants to send off two telegrams right away, and Mrs Thornton has banged her door tight shut!" Mrs Rigney looked up amicably. "It's just a fit of conscience brought on by your new boarder. I'll go and see Mrs Roberts, and don't hurry the telegrams, Mrs Parsons. I think Mrs French may wish to change them later." A moment afterward her placid voice was heard answering the sobbing. Mrs Roberts. "No," it said soothingly, "I don't think you're a wicked wretch, and I certainly can't let you go home to-day. Just write to Mr Roberts that you're lonely, and beg him to come up for Sunday. Wash your eyes and put away your things. You didn't need this episode, but-" she lowered her voice and looked at the door banged tight- "there are those that did." Later, seated in her favorite chair, Mrs Rigney saw the disturbing element returning. As he dropped into a low chair near her rocker he turned toward her a face of mingled appeal and defiance. "Mr Ford," she said, "I fear you are a mischief-making young man." "Madam, why not call me a social reformer? Honestly," he went on, laying a boyish hand upon her book, "I just couldn't help it. I know what a city summer means, and they looked so smug and cool and so complacent-" "That you invented Louise and the letter on the instant," said Mrs Rigney. "I did," he confessed; "but how did you guess?" "I know a college man when I see him, and my old friend, Kate Ford, wrote me that her son was tramping through this region." "My mother's friend!" he cried dramatically; "then, you'll be mine. What shall I do?" She laughed. "Pay you board and go, I'll keep your secret. Cheer up! You have done less harm and more good than some other reformers I have met. My love to your mother!" When the next Saturday came round, it was a matter of comment at the little village in "the Holler" that so many men descended from the evening train and wished conveyance to "The Homestead." "John," said the happy little bride, as she welcomed her husband. "I don't care if- if you did go to a roof garden! I'd go anywhere if you left me alone down there!" And John, mystified, but wise beyond his years of matrimony, kissed her and asked no questions. Afterward she told him this story. STRANGER THAN FICTION The True Story of an Old Maryland Churchyard [Written by MYNNA THRUSTON for The Sunday Republican.] Maryland, being one of the most important of the 13 colonial states, is full of romances and traditions, handed down from generation to generation in the colonial families- a people who have held honor and truth above riches. In the old churchyard of Whitemarsh Parish, Talbot county, is the tombstone of Rev Daniel Maznadier, a Huguenot, driven from France in 1685. He was the rector of St Peter's church, Whitemarsh, from 1717 to 1745. A remarkable and authentic story of his wife makes this old parish churchyard of particular interest. His wife died suddenly, and, as was the custom in those days, was buried the day of her death. The household was thrown into confusion by this sudden event, and when the lady was dressed for burial it was overlooked that a handsome ring was still on her finger. During the ceremony she lay in the church, in an inclosed coffin, that the parishioners might look for the last time on their friend so suddenly taken from them. Two strangers entered from curiousity, as they were passing the church, and the glances of these men fell on the beautiful ring Mrs Maznadier wore. That night they went to this old churchyard and opened the grave, lifted the coffin to the sod above and split it open. They then tried to take the ring from the lady's finger, but all their efforts were in vain; it would not move. Wishing to accomplish their grewsome design as speedily as possible, one of them opened his knife and attempted to strike off the finger at the joint with a blow. But a loud shriek was given by the supposedly dead woman, and the robbers took to their heels, in deadly terror. The rector had fallen asleep after his day of sorrow, but was awakened about midnight by hearing a moaning sound at his front door. Hastily dressing himself, he took his lantern, thinking some of his flock or a passing stranger was in trouble of some kind and needed his ministrations. On opening his door he thought surely he must still be dreaming, for there lay his wife across the doorstep, half-fainting, and the blood dripping from her finger. Mrs Maznadier was ill many weeks after this, but in time completely recovered and lived to a good old age. Ocean water contains the most salt in the equatorial regions. SKELETON OF HORSE 3,000,000 YEARS OLD The Little Eohippus Stands 11 Inches High and is a Very Rare Specimen. Only One Other is Known session of the American museum of natural history in New York. That was in 1908. Even at that time Amherst was far ahead of any other college in the world as regards fossil collections of horses and other animals. The last seven years have seen a big step ahead, particularly in the recent discovery of one of the two missing specimens of the known horse family. That valuable addition to the Amherst collection was made a week or so ago, and now there is only one missing branch in the family tree. If anyone will take the trouble to visit the Amherst collection and ask questions, the information will be forthcoming that there are five known members of the horse family, all dignified with names so long or unusual that there is no danger of misapplication. They range in size from the little eohippus, standing 11 inches high, and thought to be about 3,000,000 years old, to the modern dray horse 6 1/2 feet tall. The former is the earliest known member of the horse family, and there are only two of them in the world, one at Amherst and the other in the New York museum. No 2 of the family is the mesohippus, about the size of a sheep, the bones of which are in the possession of Amherst college and are about to be mounted. No 3 is the only specimen now missing from the Amherst collection. It is the parahippus, and the only specimen is in the possession of the New York museum. Prof F. B. Loomis of Amherst, through whose untiring efforts the Amherst, through whose untiring efforts the Amherst collection has been brought to its present high perfection, is going in search of the parahippus just as soon as an expedition can be arranged. No 4 is the extinct American horse, equus scotti, which has just been added to the collection, and No 5 is the modern giant draft horse, beside which is mounted at Amherst, a full-grown adult Shetland pony about three feet high. The latest acquisition, the skeleton of the extinct American horse, equus scotti, was found at Rock Creek in the lower pleistocene strata of Texas by Edward L. Troxell, Yale 1910, Columbia 1913, and an assistant instructor in biology at Amherst in 1913-1914. Mr Troxell was at the time conducting a private investigation. How Fossils Are Found The search for fossils is not an easy one. The scientist starts out early in the morning with his pick in his hand and a bag over his back, containing hammer, chisel, awls, brushes, cloth for bandages, flour, shellac and a canteen of water. To find specimens one must climb around on the face of one of the many wind-swept and sandy hills of the Bad Land countries, until he comes upon some fragment of a bone, which has been weathered out and perhaps rolled down the hill. This is traced upward until the bone from which it and perhaps other fragments were detected is found. This technically is called a "lead," and is carefully uncovered to ascertain how much is present and whether there is enough to determine what sort of an animal it is part of. In the case of the equus scotti, Mr Troxell found that the "prospect" was unusually good. At this point the patient, serious work begins. In these beds the bones are without any infiltrated filling, so that, though perfect in form, they are soft and fragile. To remedy this defect a coat of shellac is applied and allowed to soak in, then a second and third, and often more, are put on, until the sandstone, or matrix, and bone cease to take up shellac. As soon as the bone has hardened, strips of cloth are dipped in flour paste and adjusted to make a firm bandage. When dried in the stage the whole is firm enough to work around, and the adjacent rock is gently removed, leaving the specimen on somewhat of a pedestal. The preparation and the work of quarrying take three or more days of careful, patient work. Then finally the slab containing the bones and hardened with shellac is wrapped in straw and shipped to the college. When the specimen reaches Amherst, John Harlow beings the second stage of the work. To take the bones from the slab and prepare them for mounting require all the patience and skill of a master mechanic. Very carefully, often with the finest of dental tools, it is necessary to dig away the sandstone covering the bones. The work becomes more delicate as the fragile bones appear. As soon as exposed to the air the pulverized mass is given a coat of shellac, and this process is continued until it becomes firm and durable. After the preparator has the material in working shape he must add the missing parts, restoring them with plaster. This requires a careful study of other prehistoric bones. The skeleton is then mounted, a work which is comparatively easy as regards the fixing process. As soon as the equus scotti is dry and in the case, work will begin on the bones of the mesohippus, which was found on the exploration trip of 1903 in the big Bad Land of South Dakota. This will make the Amherst collection nearly complete, with four of the five in the series. The parahippus tyleri coming next to the10 THE EVENING POST: NEW YORK, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 7, 1916. A South American Poet ---------- Qualities of the Work of Chocano, with Translations of Some of His Verse ---------- By ALICE STONE BLACKWELL One of South America's most famous poets is José Santos Chocano, of Peru, who recently came to the United States on a visit. Chocano has had a checkered career. He has been connected at different times with most of the newspapers of Lima, and has himself started various papers and magazines. He has taken an active and sometimes a stormy part in politics. But it is with his literary and not with his political life that this article is concerned. His first book of poems, "Santas Iras," appeared in 1895. It breathes fiery indignation against wrong and oppression and sorrow over human misery. Other volumes followed in quick succession, some of them as gentle and sweet as the first was fierce and hot. Chocano's poetry ranges through the great variety of themes, and he uses with remarkable facility many different kinds of metre. His thought is often vigorous and striking, and he abounds in poetic similes. Of all his books, the one that he himself likes best is "Alma Americana," and he is said to have expressed the wish that everything which he wrote before that might be destroyed. This volume is of especial interest because it is characteristically South American; it smacks of the soil. Unlike some of the Spanish- American poets whose verse has been so strongly influenced by foreign literature that were they not written in Spanish we should hardly know that we were not reading the work of a French or an Italian poet, Chocano is frankly South American. His poetry celebrates the gorgeous flowers, the brilliant birds, the terrible wild beasts of the South American forests; the rich vegetation, the giant mountains, the majestic rivers of the continent. The poet is of mixed Indian and Spanish blood, and his imagination revels [scan of lower half of newspaper on the next page] I am a trackless wood - oh, cleave the pathway! A cavern dark - ah, light thy light in me! I would be condor, jaguar, or boa, Whate'er thou pleasest, each and all for thee. Fain would I be a condor bold, to glory In having seized the lightning in my beak - And then, with pride, to offer thee a pinion To make a fan to cool thy brow and cheek. Fain would I be a forest boaconstrictor. Gird with my powerful rings thy graceful waist, Wrap all thy pulses in my coils tight woven, And, dying, hold thy beauty close embraced. The jaguar that roams upon thy mountains I fain would be, to drag thee to my liar, And have the power to rend apart thine entrails And see if haply any heart is there! ---------- LIGHTNING. O ragged mother, holding out thine hand Forever at the doors, in sorrow deep [Photo] [scan of lower half of newspaper on the next page] Sank down in battle, fell to earth and died - And no one now remembers that he fought. Sister art thou to him who fell one day Among machinery's teeth, which crush and kill. The wheels were all indifferent to his fate, But human hearts were more indifferent still. Thou waste the [life] wife of him who at the plough Died, sunstruck, as he labored on the plain, To-day all head the bread [thy] his wheat has made. Thou dost not eat it - and be sowed the grain! Thou art the daughter and the sister poor - The Widow always left with child unborn. Thou art the mother who of every rag Will make a flag, when breaks to-morrow's morn. Still, as a consolation, in thy womb A son of thy dead husband thou dost bear. A cloud of rage: its thoughts are of the sky - But of a sky where tempest fills the air! Thy son will be no gentle cherub fair, No honey, cup, no Mayflower soft of bloom. O ragged mother! Lo, thou art the cloud, And thou dost bear the lightning in thy womb! ---------- THE RIVERS. The mountain peaks weep tears of icy dew, And o'er the tragic, naked slopes they flow, Forming, as they creep downward from the snow, Fountains and springs in love with heaven's blue. Cracks in the mossy soil they wander through; The torrent-waters in their prison show Like jewels rich, that sparkle, flash, and glow In velvet caskets of the emerald's hue. Suddenly silent fall their voices deep; And, like monastic robes in stately flow, They wrap their crystal in thin mists, and there Is born the river, like a flock of sheep Which leave upon the sharp rocks as they go Their wool entangled - foam flakes white and fair. ---------- THE VOLCANOS. Every volcano rears its outlined height as if upon a sudden o'er the sky Two unseen hands suspended from on high The corner of a veil before our sight. The mountain's crest is white, and purely white; With hot desire its heart seethes burningly, Strange contrast is the ice to fire so nigh, Like a stern soul above a passion's might. Volcanos are grim stone-heaps, dark and bare; But at their feet the blooming vales we see Like carpets many-hued, with spangled bowers; And there, amid those fields of colors fair, Outlines against the blue, they seem to be Baskets o'erturned, that pour abroad their flowers. ---------- A QUEEN'S BREAST. She was a Queen of Spain. Her name beside We know not, nor her lineage - Just the grace With which she stopped her carriage, left her [scan of lower half of newspaper on the next page] ---------- ---------- HORN OF PLENTY. Bright in America's deep chests there lies Wealth to outshine the sun in heaven's height. Peru's rich gold roused longing's fiercest might In ancient nations; silver's precious prize Mexico yields, in-streams no summer dries; [?] her copper, burning ruddy bright; Pearls, Panama, like fine teeth, pure and white; Diamonds, Brazil, that flash like sparkling eyes. And if Bolivia rears, with epic pride, Volcanos like deep coffers filled with snow, Of her steep mountain chain the diadem, Colombia spreads her Delphic garlands wide And sees them green the whole year long, as though Through her own emeralds she gazed on them. ---------- EAGLES AND SPARROWS. Without avail the flocks of sparrows try Some lofty tower to level with the plain; They strike it with their little wings in vain; So pants the envious crowd, in frenzy high, Let selfishness league all stupidity Against one peak of Thought's vast mountain chain; What matter? Their assaults it can disdain. A cloud can never make the ocean dry! Fretful ambitions in their zeal unite, Like a massed handful of the light sea-sands, Then, smitten by the waves, abroad are thrown. To journey through the blue of heaven's height, The little sparrows join themselves in bands, While the great eagles take their flight alone. ---------- THE SWORD OF VICEROY: A TRADITION OF LIMA Leaving the palace on the lowest stair The Viceroy, smiling in his dignity, Turning back, to bid it with a glace good-by, He held his sword's gold cross, that glittered fair. Deep stains of blood that sword was wont to wear, In battle with the Moors, 'neath Spain's blue sky. From its keen point had spread that crimson dye To its rich carven hilt, a treasure rare. An old man came before the Viceroy's face, And asked an alms of him, and not in vain. Compassion made his eagle glance grow dim. He, who descended poor from the high place, Broke for the beggar his rich sword in twain, That he might give the sculptured hilt to him. ---------- THE BOA-CONSTRICTOR'S DREAM. Within his knots a strength mysterious [lies?]; Upon his tongue is anger's quivering glow; Across his scales bright, shining currents flow; Clearness of emerald lurks within his eyes. He sleeps on roses coiled, in-peaceful guise: [scan of lower half of newspaper on the next page][scan of top portion of newspaper on previous page] ---------- By ALICE STONE BLACKWELL One of South America's most famous poets is José Santos Chocano, of Peru, who recently came to the United States on a visit. Chocano has had a checkered career. He has been connected at different times with most of the newspapers of Lima, and has himself started various papers and magazines. He has taken an active and sometimes a stormy part in politics. But it is with his literary and not with his political life that this article is concerned. His first book of poems, "Santas Iras," appeared in 1895. It breathes fiery indignation against wrong and oppression and sorrow over human misery. Other volumes followed in quick succession, some of them as gentle and sweet as the first was fierce and hot. Chocano's poetry ranges through the great variety of themes, and he uses with remarkable facility many different kinds of metre. His thought is often vigorous and striking, and he abounds in poetic similes. Of all his books, the one that he himself likes best is "Alma Americana," and he is said to have expressed the wish that everything which he wrote before that might be destroyed. This volume is of especial interest because it is characteristically South American; it smacks of the soil. Unlike some of the Spanish- American poets whose verse has been so strongly influenced by foreign literature that were they not written in Spanish we should hardly know that we were not reading the work of a French or an Italian poet, Chocano is frankly South American. His poetry celebrates the gorgeous flowers, the brilliant birds, the terrible wild beasts of the South American forests; the rich vegetation, the giant mountains, the majestic rivers of the continent. The poet is of mixed Indian and Spanish blood, and his imagination revels in old legends of the bravery and [?] alike by the natives and by their conquerors, and in the traditions of the time of Lima's glory, the loves and [?], the splendid merrymakings and savage cruelties of the stately days of the Spanish viceroys. Some samples of Chocano's work will give a better idea of his thought than any amount of description. His poetry loses a great deal when the graceful and sonorous Spanish is rendered into the less musical English. But his meaning is reproduced with as much fidelity as the translator could compass. ---------- THE MAGNOLIA. Deep in the forest, full of song and fragrance, Blooms the magnolia, delicate and light, Like snowy wool among the thorns entangled, Or, on the quiet lake, a foam-flake white. Its vase is worthy of a Grecian maker. A marble wonder of the classic days. It shows its fine, firm roundness, like a lady Who with bared breast her loveliness displays. It is a pearl? Is it a tear? We know now! Between it and the moon, with mystery rife, There is some unknown story of enchantment, In which, perhaps, a white dove lost its life; For it is pure and white and light and graceful, Like a soft moonbeam on a snowbank deep, That rests upon the snow and mingles with it; Or like a dove upon the branch asleep. ---------- THE ANDES. As winds along, in snowy marble bare, The carven serpent of Laocoön, O'er a whole continent the Andes run, Braiding their mighty knots in shining air. A horror like to Dante's thrills us there, To see that crowd of heroes, every one Lifting a shield of granite in the sun, And crowned with silver helmet gleaming fair. Each hero's heart is filled with boundless grief Because he longs to shout; he trembles, fights, Is rent with pain - and yet no shout we hear. In gloomy ecstasy, his sole relief Is to send downward from his farthest heights A wandering river, like a silent tear. ---------- FOREST LOVE. Scarce do I wish to be the humble spider Which weaves its web around thee, maiden fair, And which, as if exploring some high mountain, Tangles itself in meshes of thine hair. Fain would I be a silkworm, make my lacework, And to the sharp-toothed wheels my cocoon give, That so I might, imprisoned in a garment, Feel thee beneath my silk folds throb and live. Fain would I be a tree and give thee shadow, And with my flowering branches shelter thee, And with my dry leaves make for thee a carpet Where thou should'st throw thyself to dream with me. I am a trackless wood - oh, cleave the pathway! A cavern dark - ah, light thy light in me! I would be condor, jaguar, or boa, Whate'er thou pleasest, each and all for thee. Fain would I be a condor bold, to glory In having seized the lightning in my beak - And then, with pride, to offer thee a pinion To make a fan to cool thy brow and cheek. Fain would I be a forest boaconstrictor. Gird with my powerful rings thy graceful waist, Wrap all thy pulses in my coils tight woven, And, dying, hold thy beauty close embraced. The jaguar that roams upon thy mountains I fain would be, to drag thee to my liar, And have the power to rend apart thine entrails And see if haply any heart is there! ---------- LIGHTNING. O ragged mother, holding out thine hand Forever at the doors, in sorrow deep [Photo [Photo Caption: HANNIS TAYLOR Author of "Cicero : A Sketch of HIs Life and Works" (A. C. McClurg + Co.)] And seeing always bare and empty chests And human consciences fast locked in sleep! O thou that goest gathering in the bag Of thy sore poverty forever more, Leavings that in the shipwreck of each day, Follies and vices cast upon the shore! Daughter art thou to him who went to war, Marched in the ranks and shed his blood un-bought. ---------- [Advertisement: THE WINGED VICTORY By SARAH GRAND "Strong in Plot, Brilliant in Characterization" Not even "The Heavenly Twins" embodies so many of the characteristics of a literary masterpiece as this new novel by Madame Grand. It is the story of an English girl - whose indomitable spirit carries her from a lace maker's shop to the highest position in society. The London Daily Telegraph says: "The author makes her characters with the skill of genius. We stand back to admire Madame Grand. One of the best novels of the year." At all Booksellers $1.50 net. For sale at all Booksellers, $1.50 net, THIS IS AN APPLETON BOOK APPLETON + COMPANY 35 WEST 52ND STREET NEW YORK] ---------- [Advertisement: Make Your Living-Room Your University EVERYMAN'S LIBRARY There are 734 Volumes Now Ready All of Educational Value CHOOSE FOR YOURSELF Books that you will always value. Books that your children should know. Books that are essential to being an all-round well-read man. Books noted everywhere for being the best modern editions, clear type, convenient size, and attractive binding. Cloth, 40c. net; Leather, 80c. net. (Postage Extra.) E. P. DUTTON + CO., 681 Fifth Avenue, New York] [scan cut off this section; copied from previous page: Sank down in battle, fell to earth and died - And no one now remembers that he fought. Sister art thou to him who fell one day Among machinery's teeth, which crush and kill. The wheels were all indifferent to his fate, But human hearts were more indifferent still. Thou waste the [life] wife of him who at the plough Died, sunstruck, as he labored on the plain,] To-day all eat the bread [thy] his wheat has made. Thou dost not eat it - and be sowed the grain! Thou art the daughter and the sister poor - The Widow always left with child unborn. Thou art the mother who of every rag Will make a flag, when breaks to-morrow's morn. Still, as a consolation, in thy womb A son of thy dead husband thou dost bear. A cloud of rage: its thoughts are of the sky - But of a sky where tempest fills the air! Thy son will be no gentle cherub fair, No honey, cup, no Mayflower soft of bloom. O ragged mother! Lo, thou art the cloud, And thou dost bear the lightning in thy womb! ---------- THE RIVERS. The mountain peaks weep tears of icy dew, And o'er the tragic, naked slopes they flow, Forming, as they creep downward from the snow, Fountains and springs in love with heaven's blue. Cracks in the mossy soil they wander through; The torrent-waters in their prison show Like jewels rich, that sparkle, flash, and glow In velvet caskets of the emerald's hue. Suddenly silent fall their voices deep; And, like monastic robes in stately flow, They wrap their crystal in thin mists, and there Is born the river, like a flock of sheep Which leave upon the sharp rocks as they go Their wool entangled - foam flakes white and fair. ---------- THE VOLCANOS. Every volcano rears its outlined height as if upon a sudden o'er the sky Two unseen hands suspended from on high The corner of a veil before our sight. The mountain's crest is white, and purely white; With hot desire its heart seethes burningly, Strange contrast is the ice to fire so nigh, Like a stern soul above a passion's might. Volcanos are grim stone-heaps, dark and bare; But at their feet the blooming vales we see Like carpets many-hued, with spangled bowers; And there, amid those fields of colors fair, Outlines against the blue, they seem to be Baskets o'erturned, that pour abroad their flowers. ---------- A QUEEN'S BREAST. She was a Queen of Spain. Her name beside We know not, nor her lineage - Just the grace With which she stopped her carriage, left her [scan of lower half of newspaper on the next page] ---------- ---------- HORN OF PLENTY. Bright in America's deep chests there lies Wealth to outshine the sun in heaven's height. Peru's rich gold roused longing's fiercest might In ancient nations; silver's precious prize Mexico yields, in-streams no summer dries; [?] her copper, burning ruddy bright; Pearls, Panama, like fine teeth, pure and white; Diamonds, Brazil, that flash like sparkling eyes. And if Bolivia rears, with epic pride, Volcanos like deep coffers filled with snow, Of her steep mountain chain the diadem, Colombia spreads her Delphic garlands wide And sees them green the whole year long, as though Through her own emeralds she gazed on them. ---------- EAGLES AND SPARROWS. Without avail the flocks of sparrows try Some lofty tower to level with the plain; They strike it with their little wings in vain; So pants the envious crowd, in frenzy high, Let selfishness league all stupidity Against one peak of Thought's vast mountain chain; What matter? Their assaults it can disdain. A cloud can never make the ocean dry! Fretful ambitions in their zeal unite, Like a massed handful of the light sea-sands, Then, smitten by the waves, abroad are thrown. To journey through the blue of heaven's height, The little sparrows join themselves in bands, While the great eagles take their flight alone. ---------- THE SWORD OF VICEROY: A TRADITION OF LIMA Leaving the palace on the lowest stair The Viceroy, smiling in his dignity, Turning back, to bid it with a glace good-by, He held his sword's gold cross, that glittered fair. Deep stains of blood that sword was wont to wear, In battle with the Moors, 'neath Spain's blue sky. From its keen point had spread that crimson dye To its rich carven hilt, a treasure rare. An old man came before the Viceroy's face, And asked an alms of him, and not in vain. Compassion made his eagle glance grow dim. He, who descended poor from the high place, Broke for the beggar his rich sword in twain, That he might give the sculptured hilt to him. ---------- THE BOA-CONSTRICTOR'S DREAM. Within his knots a strength mysterious [lies?]; Upon his tongue is anger's quivering glow; Across his scales bright, shining currents flow; Clearness of emerald lurks within his eyes. He sleeps on roses coiled, in-peaceful guise: When [it?] uncoils, on his long skin there show Red [?], patterns quaint that come and go, Flashes of crystal, marks like butterflies. An S from some strange monogram escaped Goes dancing o'er the green and flowery ground Like a swift firework, shining in our sight. Upon a tree at last his knot hangs draped, Encircling it like some rich bracelet, wound With grace about a fair arm, round and white. ---------- THE ALLIGATOR'S DREAM. A huge trunk, stranded where the water flows, Beside the stream the alligator waits, His back a mountain chain which dares the Fates, Abysmal jaws, a mighty tail for blows. Round him the sunlight like a halo glows; He seems, in mail of shining armor plates, A metal monster that reverberates, And, as it echoes, changeful color shows. Motionless like an idol, girt around With strong, steel mail, he lies upon the shore, In gloomy ecstasy reposing there. He seems a prince by some enchantment bound. Condemned to dwell a prisoner evermore Within a river's crystal palace fair. ---------- THE CONDOR'S DREAM. When in the sky the starry choir awakes, The condor perches on a snow-peak's height. The day's last beam encircled him with light, And at his feet the echoing thunder breaks. A kingly ornament his white frill makes; His bold brow seems a sword-hilt; prompt for fight, Daggers of gold and ivory, gleaming bright, His talons are, with which his prey he takes. Alone upon the peak he settles down, Slow mingling with the mists; the aureole That the last sun-ray lent him soon is flown. Then, shadowy grown among the shadows brown, He sinks into the darkness, as the soul Sinks into the meditation when alone. ---------- ARCHEOLOGY. Searching mid Eastern ruins, groping slow, When some explorer in our modern days His hands upon a hidden treasure lays - Gold idols heathens worshipped long ago - Then with what eager interest aglow The spirit of the Present backward strays To that far age when priests raised hymns of praise To monstrous gods, deformed, with foreheads low: When our age, too, is dead, from tomb to tomb, Some bold explorer, groping in the gloom, Will search for what the ruins may afford. How great his fear, how strange his thoughts will be. When gleaming 'mid the shadows he shall see, Rarest, most precious treasure-trove, a sword! Interest in the great commercial possibilities of South America has over-shadowed interest in its literature; but the republics to the south of us have literary treasure also, waiting to reward those who will take the trouble to search for them. ---------- New York: 2 West 45th St., Just West of [?]th Ave. London: 24 Bedford St., Strand.